The Roaring Twenties
by SomethingWaiting
Summary: Lithuania's out-sourcing begins in the glamorous and exciting world of 1920s America. Jump on the bandwagon as they experience off-beat adventures from sea to shining sea.
1. Prelude

Thoroughly wearied by the journey overseas, he decided to sit and rest for a moment. A strange sense came over him. This was it. In a few moments, he would meet with the Englishman, and they would travel the last stretch of road. The finality of it all made him rather light-headed. Determination, curiosity, and excitement vied for domination over his emotions. That feeling was the only thing keeping him going; forcing his mind to stay alert, and his eyes on the lookout for the tow-headed Englishman.

After a few minutes of searching, worry started to creep in. There was no sign of the man. He stood back up to see better. To his dismay, another train stationed, and the thickness of the crowd increased immensely. A short, round, business-like man pushed by with an air of importance. His rotund belly jostled two children that were clutching each other's hands. The traveler's green eyes filled with concern as the children slipped through the crowd, but after they broke out to the edge of the mass of people and joined an old, frail couple, he let his gaze wander some more. A robust woman with overly rosy cheeks bellowed over the noise to a man that was probably her husband. His eyes followed them to the exit of the train station, then looked up at the clock above the doors. It read a quarter past one. Didn't the Englishman say he'd arrive ten minutes after the hour? He tried to tell himself that he was being impatient. The man was only five minutes late. But . . . what if the traveler was at the wrong train station? If that was the case, the his location was far from where he wanted—and needed—it to be. He could always ask one of the passers-by which city they were in, in his broken English. But that would mean moving from his spot on the bench and having to risk missing the Englishman if he was, in fact, at the right destination. This was quite a predicament.

Luckily, he didn't have to make the had decision and all of his doubts about the matter were put to rest when he saw a familiar flash of blond hair come through the entrance. The Englishman craned his neck, for he wasn't the tallest man in the world, and his green eyes flashed with purpose as he began to look around. He finally spotted the Lithuanian traveler, who conscientiously beckoned him over with a raised arm.

"My apologies," the Englishman said in his crisp accent once he reached the man by the bench. "Bloody traffic is surprisingly thick for this time of day. Mr. Laurinaitis, I presume?" he asked, making sure he had the name right.

"_Taip_, that is correct, Mr. Kirkland."

"Wonderful. We should be going, now. My car is waiting outside. I assume you are ready?"

The man nodded and held fast to his suitcase handle as they waded through the hordes of people, which thankfully thinned as they got outside. He slid into the back seat of a black car, followed by the Englishman.

The duration of the trip was spent in silence, save the few directions given and short, polite chat that the Englishman shared with the driver of the car. The muffled sound of the city through the windows' glass and the rumble of the engine as the car pulled away from the curb, slowly pushing through traffic, almost sounded like a foreign lullaby to the exhausted traveler. When it finally picked up speed down a highway, the steady motion seemed to be trying to rock the Lithuanian to sleep. It felt horribly impolite to fall asleep, but the trip was to be a long one, as he knew, and to stay awake for the whole ride seemed hardly imaginable. After a few miles of fighting the oncoming wave of unconsciousness, he finally gave in. The Englishman kindly pretended not to notice the man's head loll forward in slumber.

"—ke up?" The Lithuanian's eyelids fluttered as he caught the end of the question, though the people conversing didn't notice.

"I'm not sure if he will. He was quite tired," he heard the Englishman say.

"Oh? Well, if he's all tuckered out, then I don't really want to wake him."

A snort. "How . . . considerate of you."

"Well I _am_ the—"

"None of your nonsense. I found someone willing to work for you, so you owe me some seriousness, in the very least. And don't roll your eyes at me!"

"Here—" Two hands gently leaned the Lithuanian forward in his seat, followed by arms wrapping around his chest.

"Oi! You're not planning on dragging him out, are you?"

"Of course not! You take his feet."

"Git! _You_ know _I_ know that you know you don't need any help whatsoever with carrying him into your house."

"First of all; _what_? And second; shh! You don't want to wake him, do you? 'Cmon," said a voice much louder than the Englishman's. The man continued with pulling the traveler out of the car.

"Hey—!" The Englishman exclaimed as he clasped his hands under the backsides of the Lithuanian's knees before his legs dropped to the ground. There was a moment when he made a strange, strangled sound, as he fervently tried to hold back a grunt from the sudden weight in his hands. (Grunting was _highly_ ungentlemanly.) "Git," he managed to gurgle out instead.

The response was a hearty laugh that seemed to shake the other man's whole figure. The Lithuanian could feel it reverberating through the man's lungs and into his back. His eyelids fluttered once more, and his head flopped to the side before he was able to look up.

"Hello, there," said the American's friendly voice. Two bespectacled eyes smiled down at him, matching the toothy grin lower on the face.

He blinked mutely back at the man carrying his torso. If the situation were different—normal, perhaps—then he would have greeted him back. But his situation seemed anything _but_ normal. "Um, could you . . . " he started, groping for words and trying to arrange them into a coherent sentence. It was difficult to wake up to listening to an unfamiliar language, let alone try to speak it. "Could you—please—put me down?"

"Yeah, sure, buddy," the American said easily. He glanced over to the Englishman, nodding his head in his direction. "After you, Artie."

Green eyes narrowed with irritation, but he complied by carefully lowering the legs until the Lithuanian's feet were on the ground. Then he stood up, brushed his hands against his slacks and turned back to his car, taking the traveler's suitcase from the driver, who was politely waiting in silence.

The American gave a small push, sending the Lithuanian to his feet. "Leaving already?" he asked, grabbing the suitcase being held out to them.

The question was met with a frown. "Yes. Though . . . I suppose I should formally introduce you two." He brought both men to face each other. First gesturing toward the disoriented Lithuanian, he announced, "Alfred, this is Lithuania, also known as Toris Laurinaitis—" his gesture turned to the direction of the American "—and, Mr. Laurinaitis, as you well know, this is the United States of America. Or Alfred Jones."

"Alfred _F._ Jones. Don't forget the 'F'."

"Alfred F. Jones. You'll now be working for him. I dearly, dearly wish you a good stay." With that, the Englishman shook the Lithuanian's hand, giving him a pitying look, and ducked into his car.

Though their bodies were still turned toward each other, the head's of the two on the sidewalk swiveled as they intently focused on the automobile burbling out of sight.

"Aw, don't mind him. He's just a real Mrs. Grundy," Alfred said with a bat of the hand. "My place is great! The cat's pajamas for sure! You're going to have a really fine time. I know it. 'Cmon, I'll show you to your room! A personal tour of the house for my new friend Toris," he declared, giving a firm pat on the back. The Lithuanian lurched forward slightly and stared up at the American as he bounded up the porch steps. " You coming?" he asked over his shoulder.

The Lithuanian shook the dazed expression from his face, only for it to be replaced with one of awe and realization. He grasped the railing with a clammy hand. His stomach felt tickled and clenched. This was it. As his foot made contact with the first porch step, he entered a new world of hope, freedom, and one where cats apparently wore pajamas. He walked up and into his new life as America's housekeeper.

* * *

_AN;;; Okay. Hello, all. This is my first attempt at a fan fiction, so if it's horrible, I'm terribly sorry. D :_

_Um . . what to say . . ._

_Well, if you haven't noticed, yet, the characters mentioned so far are Lithuania and England. I think I'm going to stick with using human names. Or maybe not. I haven't decided._

_The story is pretty much going to be about Lithuania's outsourcing and his time at America's house. More so, my interpretation of it. _

**WORDS THAT ARE NOT ENGLISH:**

**_Taip_ (Lithuanian): Yes **

**_Mrs. Grundy_ (American): A priggish or extremely tight-laced person **

_**Cat's Pajamas **_**(American): ****Something**** splendid or stylish; similar to bee's knees; The best or greatest, wonderful**

_EDIT Ah . . . hahaha. Well. The new part was supposed to be the start of the first chapter, but me, with my indecisive mind, decided to just add it to the prelude. Mostly because I've decided to just make this a compendium of Liet's experiences at America's and not really in chronological order, because I don't exactly have the time to research and scrutinize every little detail of the decade._

_So. .;;_

_Oh, yeah—now America is one of the characters mentioned, too. I guess you could include the driver, though he isn't a country . . ._

_That said, I hope you enjoy! And a review, maybe? I'm not going to ask yo uto be nice, or anything. I just want your honest, truthful opinions. : )_


	2. Possibilities

Lithuania's eyes snapped open. No . . . where was he? Something creaked. _He _was coming. He had to get away! No! _No, no, no!_ The room was dark, but as he thrashed out of his blankets and fell on the floor, he could sense it. The drop in temperature. The cold fingers that would be slinking around his neck. _He _was running, now. Down the stairs. With his pipe dragging across the wall. In just a few moments, _he_'d be there. Lithuania reached into the blackness for something to grab onto, for something to pull himself up with. Nothing but air met his hand.

The door inched open.

Then the light switched on.

And two, blue eyes lost the look of fierceness in them. "Uh . . . Toris?" he asked quizzically, pulling his baseball bat into the room.

The Lithuanian blinked at the floor. His head jerked up, taking in the pale, striped wallpaper, the closet, and then America, with a strange stick in hand. It was just a dream. No, a nightmare. Definitely a nightmare, that took too long to wake up from.

"This?" the blond asked, holding up the bat, wondering if it was the cause for Lithuania's bug-eyed gaze. "I . . . heard you yelling, and thought that maybe there was a burglar."

_I was yelling?_ "O-oh, nėra. There-there is no burglar. I, um, I fell out of bed," he said, trying to look embarrassed at doing something so childish as that. He sat up and put his hand to the back of his neck.

America stared at him for a moment. It unnerved the Lithuanian, but he knew that if he looked away, it would be obvious something was wrong. "Well!" the man exclaimed so suddenly that his companion's heart seemed to skip a beat from surprise. America leaned into the door, making it swing back and forth as he rocked on the balls of his feet. "Since _you're_ awake, and_ I'm_ awake, change into some clothes. I'll go get my cheaters and meet you by the front door."

With that, he was gone. Lithuania waited, motionless, until he heard the American pad back up the stairs and slam the door to his own room. Muffled, off-key singing seeped through the the upstairs floor. His mouth twitched a little at the side, but his adrenaline and bewilderment couldn't verify that his face wanted to smile. A long, airy sigh filled the room. _So it really was only a nightmare._ He pushed against the side of his mattress and got to his feet. Though it had been a full two weeks, the walls, bed, and overall feel of the house were still alien. It was as if someone had plucked him from his world of bitterness and deceit, and dropped him off at the doorstep of Possibilities.

The closet was one of the things that surprised him most. For the majority of his life, he'd either had a wardrobe, some kind of dresser, or nothing at all to put his clothes in. Were Americans so eccentric that their _clothes _needed their own room? He opened his and took his trousers and shirt from their hangers, then started unbuttoning his nightshirt.

A few minutes later, America interrupted Lithuania's search for a tie. "Ready?"

The brunette had been so absorbed in finding that tie, he hadn't noticed the intrusion. So when the American broke through the atmosphere with his energetic voice, he jumped once more. "A-almost. I just need to find my . . ." His voice tapered into silence as he took a good look at his companion. Shirt only half tucked in, tie-undone-hanging loosely around his neck, and fedora carelessly sitting slanted on his head, he looked like he'd just returned home from a long night at work. Lithuania almost expected to smell cigarette smoke diffuse throughout the room as it typically did, after one of these hard days.

"Aw, Toris! Don't tell me you're gonna be like one of these Mrs. Grundies, too," America groaned, turning his face away from the creased pants and pristine, tucked in shirt.

Lithuania stiffened. He could feel the blood crawling under his skin, making his ears and face hot. America's way of dressing was so . . . so _sloppy_. He couldn't think of a better word to call it. At least, not a better English word. The Lithuanian wanted to stay in the man's good graces, however. He really did want the nice man to keep popping up with that friendly expression, to break into song as he sauntered through the kitchen after he came home from work. If he became a "Mrs. Grundy" (which he had guessed wasn't such a good thing to be, in America's mind), his first couple weeks of honest happiness might cut short. The rest of his stay could end up being a repeat of an all too familiar life of misery.

He really didn't want that to happen. So, with hesitant fingers, he timidly undid the top button of his shirt, and waited for what he hoped would be approval.

America hooted. "Now you're on the trolley!" he said, grabbing Lithuania's wrist and pulling him out of the room. He tossed the Lithuanian's coat to him and slung his own over his shoulder. "Okay, okay, now let's get a wiggle on!" the man being scrutinized said, clapping his hands down on Lithuania's shoulders and guiding him out the door. They tapped down the steps, and on the sidewalk America let out a whoop.

Lithuania winced, hoping it didn't wake any of the neighbors. "Are you going to lock the door?"

"Nah. Nobody's really out at this time of night besides owls. And drugstore cowboys. But you won't find any of them around this part of the neighborhood," he explained with a shrug.

They started down the road. America with his free arm swinging at his side, and Lithuania with both hands in his pockets, coat looped through the gap between his arm and his body. Lithuania was puzzled at the thought of walking in the middle of the road when the sidewalks were perfectly clear of any impediments. It felt dangerous, though the road was just as deserted as the sidewalk, excluding them both. He smiled. Maybe that _was _why.

"Don't you just love it?"

Lithuania glanced up with a questioning look, but America's head was upturned, eyes closed. He started to think that was all he was going to say, for the American started whistling. _Love what? _he wondered idly_. _They turned a few corners and headed out of town. There really _was _nobody out. No cowboys, whatever those were, and he couldn't hear a single owl. They turned once more onto a road, this time it being dirt. He didn't recognize where they were, and was sure he wouldn't be able to get back to the house without America. As long as he'd known him, America had been a generous, laid-back type of man, with a plethora of cheer and a smile bright enough to make birds sing. Lithuania knew plenty of people that smiled brightly. Prussia had smiled during the Battle of Grunwald (until he realized he was losing), Ukraine smiled when her siblings managed to get along, Russia smiled when . . . -and Poland. Poland smiled-well _used _to smile-when he had a "great" idea that would usually lead to exhaustion or tight situations.

Hence, bright smiles didn't mean much, in Lithuania's book. For two weeks, he had trusted America without a second thought. Of course, during those fourteen days, they hadn't done anything such as leave the house on a whim at such a time. _Speaking of time,_ he thought, upturning his own head. The moon was high in the western region of the sky. Lithuania regretted not checking any clocks before they left, and he doubted America remembered his watch. But there was always a possibility, here.

Before he could ask, the blond stopped abruptly and threw his hands into the air. "We're here!" he declared as he spun around to face the Lithuanian.

It was a field. No, smaller. More like a large clearing bordered by tall trees. A secluded place. With many possibilities. A place so far from any people, that Lithuania figured he could shout until his lungs were bloody, and nobody but America would hear.

He began to despise possibilities.

" 'Cmon," America said, clearly oblivious to any fears infesting the other man's imagination.

Lithuania's arm recoiled toward his body as the American reached for his elbow. He'd seen this charade before. _Lived _it. All he had to do was go along with the innocent face. Just let the safe hand full of self-sureness guide him to the edge of the clearing, and-

"Hey," America interjected. Lithuania realized he had been gawking, with a no-doubt horrified expression, at the other man's face. "What's got you all balled up?"

Lithuania opened his mouth automatically to answer, but no words came to his lips, so he closed it.

America seemed to take this silence as some kind of agreement to proceed, so he clamped down on the other's elbow, this time without any objections. "We have to be quiet, now. Oh, and close your eyes. Know what? You might as well get on my back. If you fall, it'll be no good."

Everything was happening so quickly that Lithuania didn't know whether to obey the earliest command or protest to the last, first. He ended up doing the reverse, letting out a yelp as America backed into him, grabbed his arms, and hauled him up into a piggyback position.

"Make sure your eyes are shut. I can't see back there, so I'll be trusting you, okay?"

He didn't reply. He didn't close his eyes. He watched speechlessly as America trudged through the dry grass.

Then there was a crunch.

Now, he squeezed his eyes shut.

And another crunch.

He was waiting for the pain, though the rational part of his mind knew there hadn't-_yet-_-been a blow.

America stopped.

Why did this always happen to him?

_Why?_

"You can open your eyes, now," he heard the uncharacteristically hushed voice of the American say.

So he did.

But what met his eyes wasn't a pile of old, porous bones, or blood splashed across trees, or even a stack of blunt objects perfect for beating someone with. Instead, his head was surrounded by pairs of pale, green wings that seemed luminescent in the silvery light of the moon. Hundreds of the beautiful creatures whispered through the air.

"What . . . wha . . ." he breathed, momentarily forgetting most of the English he had learned.

"They're moths. Called the Luna Moth. The real bee's knees."

He dropped from America's back and felt like he was floating among them as he made his way to a tree trunk. "_Gražus_." His foot landed on something. And there was a crunch. Squatting down to see what it was, he found that it was only a nut. The Lithuanian felt like laughing. A grin broke out across his face. He pocketed it before he stood again.

"Mating season ended a few days ago for them, I'm pretty sure. They're going to die, soon," America murmured. One hand was playing with his chin as he thoughtfully watched the spectacle. His jacket was gone; probably fell when he took the Lithuanian on his back. But that wasn't something to be concerned about, at the moment.

Both gazed up in silence as the sky lightened. They stood in mute awe until the moths lost the illusion of illumination. Until the moths thinned. Until they all but disappeared.

In the gray light of the morning, everything lost its color, as if loaning it to the sunrise; expecting a show with such iridescence, the colors would be painted back so vibrantly, that for a moment the world would turn white. And in this last moment of peaceful, burlap sky, a Luna Moth landed on Lithuania's knuckle. Its full four inches of wings were as gray as a man's face in a photograph.

The fragile thing started to tremble, as if knowing it was straggling behind. Maybe this one would not live to see the next night. Maybe it would. But as it caught a breeze and fluttered across the field, into the first blinding rays of the new day, Lithuania couldn't help but think of one thing:

This was a land of eccentric, miraculous, and utterly wondrous possibilities.

* * *

_AN;;; Chapter one!_

_. . . don't expect them to be written and uploaded so frequently. I'm actually a very busy person, with school and all, but it's a long weekend. =w=_

_Ever since I was little and read my older sister's encyclopedia of living things, I've been fascinated by these moths. On a whim, I decided to re-research them, and found out that their habitat correlates with the region where the story is taking place! : D _

_And those trees are hickory trees, by the way.  
_

_It made my day. Therefore, a speedy first chapter. _

**WORDS THAT ARE NOT ENGLISH:**

**_Gražus_ (Lithuanian): Beautiful **

**_Mrs. Grundy_ (American): A priggish or extremely tight-laced person **

_**Bee's knees **_**(American): ****Something**** extraordinary; The best or greatest, wonderful **

**_Drugstore cowboy_ (American): A guy that hangs around on a street corner trying to pick up girls**

**_Owl_ (American): A person who's out late**

**_Balled up_ (American): Confused; messed up**

**_Get a wiggle on_ (American): Get a move on; get going**

**_Cheaters_ (American): Eyeglasses **

_**"Now you're on the trolley!" **_**(American):** **Now you've got it; now you're right!**

_Okay, I think I'm having _way_ too much fun with America's 1920's slang. _

_Also-sorry about the strange beginning. Nightmares are scary, and sometimes it takes a while to realize you've actually woken up. Especially if it's, like, pitch black in your bedroom and your house makes creepy noises, and you can't hear your little sister breathing even though she's supposed to be RIGHT THERE across the room, and . . . I think I need a hug. ;A;_


	3. Part 1

**WARNING: SLANG OVERLOAD. READ AT OWN RISK**

The kitchen's repose wouldn't be complete without the glowing blue light of early morning. Or so the Lithuanian thought as he tied the ends of his apron into a sturdy bow. He opened the window above the sink a crack, and the October air tumbled in. His eyes squeezed shut, watering a little, but he smiled.

Autumn was in full swing (as America would say); the foliage bright, winds biting, and fireplaces all too alluring. His employer had told him that in a month or two, there would even be snow.

This brought nostalgia to the traveler. As he tidied around the room, thoughts of home rolled across his brain. Though the American autumn was bound to give way to a marvelous winter, it could never beat the noble trees and twinkling snow blankets in the forests back home. And even though he was entitled to this opinion-for this _was_ America, where every honest (and not-so-honest, though he hadn't figured this out, yet) man was free and had rights—he'd spare the blond these personal thoughts.

Instead, as the blue-eyed man waltzed in for breakfast, they discussed exciting things such as Thanksgiving. It sounded like a delightful holiday with a feast and mouthwatering desserts. The Lithuanian even found himself looking forward to it.

But first to come would be Halloween. America promised to take him to a party. He said that they were great fun—they would dress up in costumes and mingle with people. He had a friend that threw the best parties in town, and there would be no problem getting in. All America was prattling on with about Halloween was scaring Lithuania a little. He hadn't been to a party recently, and the ones in this country were sure to be different than the ones he'd been to at his own home. Thanksgiving sounded . . . calmer. And much more decent.

He still told the American that he would be looking forward to both. For he would; Lithuania did not want to miss out on any American experiences. Especially any he was invited to join.

"Great!" the blond said, his face lighting up.

The Lithuanian smiled back, setting a plate of eggs in front of him.

"But imf y' w'nta' go, I'll have'a 'eash 'uh a f'ng 'r du."

The brunette knew America said something, and his tone of voice indicated that it was important, but he couldn't understand most of it. He knew America was definitely going to do something. But what? Lithuania thought about asking once the blond was finished his breakfast, but the conversation had already moved on.

"You know what? I don't have work today! I just remembered. And since I don't have work, you don't have work. We can get started now," the American said cheerfully, reclining back in his seat.

Lithuania felt helpless. He had no idea what they were starting, but it couldn't be dangerous, could it? So he nodded quietly and cleared the table. He was being beckoned over to sit in the chair opposite of America, and obediently sat.

"Okay," America said more seriously. He leaned forward on his elbows and peered at the Lithuanian over his glasses. "You have to be able to talk like an American to be able to survive in these parts. You know what? You actually only need to understand what's said. But unless you want to be called a sap, you need to be able to talk, too."

Lithuania gave a curt nod, doing his best to listen and absorb. Of course he wanted to survive.

"Like, if someone says, 'Don't be a pill!' they don't mean it literally . . . though they might if you come as a pill at a costume party. But somebody that does that is probably nutty—that's besides the point, though! They mean for you to not be a pest. Or, like, unlikeable. Don't be a party pooper. Er, um, that doesn't actually mean someone poops at parties, they, um, use the john for that."

The brunette's eyes widened considerably and he wondered if he really should be afraid to go to the Halloween party. But his thoughts refocused on paying attention as America continued:

"John! Oh, yeah. Whenever you hear someone talk about john, jake and joe, just remember—they're not people. A john is a toilet. Where you . . . you know. And joe is coffee. So, for example, can I have my morning joe?"

Lithuania sat a moment, absorbing. Then he realized the example wasn't only an example, but an actual question. He jumped to his feet. "O-oh, taip! I will bring you coffee—er, um, joe! I will bring you joe?" He glanced back at America to see if this was right. To his dismay, the blond's shoulders were shaking, and it was quite evident he was holding back laughter. "Was that . . . wrong?" Lithuania asked timidly, his face reddening.

"It's—just—you-you're getting it, but—Toris, your accent," he said, catching his breath.

"Is . . . it bad?" Lithuania asked softly, setting the coffee in front of America then standing back.

"No, that's not it. I just—I don't mean to razz you or anything, but it's really obvious you didn't learn English over here. Not to worry, though! By the time you leave, you'll be the best Lithuanian-that-speaks-American-English the world's ever seen."

Lithuania didn't know how much good it would do to be the best when he left, for when he got home, he wouldn't be speaking English very often. But he nodded at America's enthusiasm and returned to his seat.

"It's fun to listen to, though," he added. "Okay," America said once again, the serious look returning. He talked about how tomatoes were actually women, and so were dolls. Wet blankets weren't literally wet blankets, kind of like pills weren't literally pills. Sinkers were doughnuts and didn't have anything to do with fishing. It was good to be spiffy when you went to work, but illegal to be spifflicated. Jack was another 'J', and so was jane. It was best if he stayed away from anyone claiming they had an "edge" and if anyone offered him giggle water, it was best to refuse. He also had to make sure he didn't get involved with a moll. Otherwise he would be bumped off.

The whole morning passed them by as America bellowed and laughed, stood, sat, fidgeted, then became serious again. Not only did he speak with his voice; he spoke with his body. Try as he might, Lithuania couldn't help but get distracted by the American's sweeping gestures and wagging finger. He would be sitting on the table, back to his companion, feet dangling. Then, suddenly, Lithuania would find the blond at the other side of the kitchen, pouring himself more coffee, or rummaging around for a snack. He found the American very comical when he explained things. It was also unnerving, though. For America would only slightly touch on the details of a definition before being whisked up by some other word, and getting carried away.

It was an experience to remember, the Lithuanian thought. He didn't mind the teaching method, though he really wished he could take notes. He couldn't remember if being "on the lam" or "on the level" meant fleeing from the police, and if he stopped to think about it, he would surely be lost in all of the words America would say in the meantime.

It was several more hours until the blond seemed to finally be running out of steam. He had taken the Lithuanian's seat while the brunette was putting the dishes to soak. Lithuania tiredly took the seat opposite. He leaned forward on his elbows and folded his arms, intent on comprehending.

"Oooh-kay," America said, stretching. "How 'bout we go over everything. Then get some lunch. I'm hungry."

Lithuania nodded, though his stomach hurt to much for food to sound appealing.

"So." America leaned forward, too. He rested his head on in his hands and stared solemnly into the eyes of his friend. Then his usual goofy grin took over. "Let's review. If someone tells you to jump in a lake, you . . ."

The Lithuanian's brow knitted in determination. "I do not jump in a lake. I stay away from the person. I do not bother."

"Good. If someone asks for an ace, they . . ."

"They do not want to play with cards. They want . . . a dollar bill?"

"Yes! And if someone punks out?"

"The person—they are going to do something—but—then they—um, they do not do it? They are scared and don't do it. And, um . . ."

"Good enough! You got the gist of it. Okay, if people are petting each other . . ."

"They aren't actually petting each other. They are . . . _embracing_."

"Yeah, kisses and stuff. If a girl asks you 'cash or check?' "

"I tell her cash?" The boy frowned. He couldn't remember which word he was supposed to say.

Suddenly, America pooched out his lips and made loud kissing noises.

Lithuania's eyes widened. "Check! I say check!" he said frantically. America stopped for a moment, and the brunette sighed. Then the blond started up again, a very strange expression on his face as he struggled to hide a smile. Lithuania pushed his chair back and started to stand. "Closed! Th-the bank! It is closed! I tell her . . ."

"There you go, pal," America said, standing and leaning forward to clap him on the shoulder. Something caught his eye. "Oh. It's you," he said flatly above the other man's head.

Lithuania turned. A very . . . peculiar-looking Englishman met his gaze. "Alfred. What the bloody . . . what . . . were you—"

"Hey! What're you implying, there? I was just teaching him how to talk."

"Talk? Why, he knows how to talk!"

"Sure, his English is fine. But I've been teaching him American all morning. He catches on really quick! Say, what's it mean for someone to double-cross you, Toris?"

The Lithuanian sprang to his feet. "Um, we didn't—"

"Didn't learn that one?" America's face took on its teacherly look once more. "Well, you see, it's when someone stabs you in the back—no, not literally! Most of these aren't literal," he added quickly to try to ease his friend's expression. "When they cheat you, I guess."

"Garbage. You're teaching the poor man trash! He was so successful, and know you've all but diluted his progress to mindless vulgarity!"

"Do not _oppugn_ me," America exclaimed in a nearly flawless English accent, throwing his arms in the air. It was clear he was enjoying the banter, no matter how good he could mimic the Englishman's exasperated look. "Oh, that reminds me—Toris and I have a lunch date, so if you'd excuse us . . ."

"Date?"

"Not _that_ kind of date—"

"Did I specify which 'kind of date' I was speaking of? I think not."

"Hey, Toris. How do you tell someone to leave you alone?" America asked, not taking his eyes away from England's.

"G-go jump in a lake?"

"Yeah, go jump in a lake," he told England, waving his hands in a dismissive manner. He swiveled on his heel and took hold of Lithuania's tie. The brunette only had time to utter the very beginnings of an apology to the Englishman, who had been so nice and patient with him, before America pulled him around the other blond and out the kitchen door.

"And just where are you headed?" England asked, following them out.

America raised an eyebrow at his crossed arms. "Wherever I feel like," he replied with a shrug. With one more hearty yank, he pulled Lithuania out the of the house.

"That bird sure can beef," he said after a few minutes of fast-paced walking.

Lithuania's eyes bounced between glancing over to America and looking at the ground. "Is it not bad to leave him there? Is it not mean?"

The American whistled lowly. "Of course not! I do it all the time. He'll probably fall asleep on the couch or something, sulk a little, and then try to make me eat his food. But he'll leave in a few days, and come later."

"Comes back? Does he visit frequently?"

"Yep! Ever since—when was that?—1817? Somewhere around that time. He shows up nearly once a month. Except for July, of course. Well, I guess he sometimes comes for my birthday, but not regularly. Especially if he knows Francis is coming." America shrugged. "Oh, and he visits twice in November, because of Thanksgiving. Along with Mattie, since he likes turkey, too. Then sometimes Francis comes because of Matt—and doesn't _that_ make it quite a party."

"That sounds like a family dinner," the Lithuanian said encouragingly.

"Yeah, but I don't actually invite _any_ of them. Matthew's welcome. But that's because he's my brother. Artie nags about everything. About the tea—or the lack of it, I guess—about the house, about traffic, about Francis—if he's over. He can be okay, though. Francis probably uses Mattie as an excuse to come over. It _is_ kinda annoying, sometimes. But I think they all just like touring my cities. Can't blame 'em."

"I'm-I'm annoying as well?"

"What? No!" America thumped him on the back. "Not at all. It's nice having a new face around."

Lithuania returned his smile and settled his gaze on the ground. A chilling wind made him realize they didn't bring their coats. He still had his apron on, too. He pressed his arms closer to his body, but America didn't seem to notice.

"Hey, does that look like a turtle?" the blond asked, nodding his head up toward the sky.

Lithuania squinted a little as he studied the cloud in question. "It does," he confirmed with some awe.

"That one—there—it looks like a sailboat!"

"An-and there is a tree."

"Yes, yes! A Christmas tree. Christmas is going to be great this year, Toris. Don't forget to get me a present."

The brunette smiled. "Please don't worry. I will give you one. I promise."

"I'll get you one, too."

"Does your family visit for Christmas?"

"Matthew usually does. Artie's got a big family, so he comes only sometimes. But every once in a while, I have a big party that lasts until the new year, and a lot of people come."

"Will there be a big party this year?"

"Do you want one?" America asked, peering over.

Lithuania stared solidly at the ground. Would it be rude to say no? It was America's house, and if he wanted a party, Lithuania felt he shouldn't interfere. Yet, wouldn't it be worse to lie?

"It's fine if we don't, you know. S'only your first year here! And I can't afford a party every holiday," America said with a chuckle. "Boy, if I could . . . Hey! Want a hot dog?"

"Dog?"

"Yeah, to eat."

"_D-dog?_"

"Toris, not a real dog. It's like a sausage. Of sorts. With bread on the outside. Then you put relish and other condiments on it."

"Oh," the Lithuanian murmured more calmly.

"It's about as American as food gets around here. Well, besides lemon meringue pie. Do you want a hot dog?"

"Yes, please," Lithuania said politely.

America's smile seemed to reach from ear to ear. He steered them farther into the city, where, thankfully, the tall structures and numerous people helped with blocking the wind. As they advanced, the buildings grew taller and things became noisier. Boisterous people hurried by. Cars rattled and aberrant smells wafted through the air. Lithuania recalled that the last time he went through the cities of America he was sleeping in a car. On foot and wide awake, it was a completely different world. The hustle and bustle was overwhelming, but the traveler gritted his teeth and tried not to look so . . . foreign. Even so, he received strange looks from passers-by that happened to not be completely immersed in getting from one place to another.

A man passing in front of them looked up a moment, then did a double-take. But he wasn't noticing the Lithuanian. "_Heeey_, there, Jonesy," he rasped, shoving America on shoulder.

The blond's lips pulled back from his teeth in a way that was a little to dark to be a grin. "How 'er ya, Sammy?" he asked crisply, returning the gesture.

"Aw, you know. Hey, coulja spare a guy a clam?"

"Sorry, bud. I ain't got jack." America shrugged, looking slightly contrite like a good friend would.

"How 'bout you," Sammy asked, turning to Lithuania. "Got any?"

Lithuania's mouth opened, but his voice faltered. What he supposed to speak like America taught him? This was the test. He had to do it right. He had to be able—

"Shoot, Jonesy, dija pick 'im up fresh off the boat? Hey—you—speak English? Eeeen-glish?"

"Yes," Lithuania answered, though the man didn't seem to hear.

"Quite a sight, Jonesy. Jus' look 'ere at his 'air!" He reached up and ruffled the brunette's bangs, much to the countries' surprise.

"Okay, okay, that's enough, Sam. Go along—we're busy," America said.

"What, Jonesy? Come now, don' act like some bimbo. We both know you ain't. And just a dollar; I'm not askin' fer much!"

"I said I don't have any money on me." America poked playfully at the man, getting him to turn around. "And just 'cause you play with my friend's hair doesn't mean I've suddenly grown some in my pockets! See you 'round, Sammy. Take care. I mean it." America grabbed Lithuania's arm and ushered him through the throngs of people until they were lost in the crowd. Then they looped around to the other side of the street and continued on their way.

The Lithuanian watched his companion with reserved curiosity. Would it be too rude to pry?

After a moment, America glanced over, made eye contact before his eyes flitted somewhere else and turning his head away. Finally, he looked back and smiled at his friend. "Quite a fellow, isn't he?"

Lithuania nodded supportingly.

"He's a good man. But even good men can get stuck. He's a drunk. Primed. All the time. Even though it's . . . _unlawful._" He wrinkled his nose. An action Lithuania found uncharacteristically grouchy for him.

Their walk was speechless for a few blocks, until Lithuania remembered what clams were, and that they were discussing money. "Do you really not have any money with you?"

America grinned. "Not a cent. You?"

He shook his head.

"Don't you worry. People around here know me, and know I'll pay them back." America was confident, and that disposition served him well. Before long, he stopped a man pushing a cart that smelled extremely appetizing. After some catching up and friendly quibble, the man handed over two bundles. America said his good-byes and rejoined Lithuania by the corner of the road. "Here you go," he said, giving one to the brunette.

Lithuania studied it in his hands for a moment. There was a crinkling noise and he saw America unwrapping his own. Lithuania copied the actions, and found steaming bread with meat nestled in the middle. Oozing green and red covered part of the top and dirtied his hands.

"S'a hot dog. They wrap them up a little more in the colder weather. Go ahead—dig in," the American said with an expectant look on his face.

"A-and there is no dog in it?"

"Not a bit! Well, at least I don't think so," America said, voice trailing off. He stared at his, eyebrow going up. "Here, you eat yours first and tell me if it does."

Lithuania stared at the American, hands frozen half way to his mouth.

"No, really, I'm joking! Just joshin' you. It's fine," the blond said with a laugh. He seemed to gobble his in only a couple bites.

Lithuania took a hesitant first bite, and after thouroughly chewing and swallowing, he smiled at the American. "It tastes good." His stomachache lessened, and he figured it had just been hunger all along.

America tipped his head back and let out a jingly laugh. "Okay, eat up before it gets cold."

After a few more blocks, the wrappers were tossed into park wastebasket and the two sat on a bench. The sun was beginning to taint the world orange and allow colder winds to blow. Lithuania shivered slightly. Did America have a plan? Or were they just wandering about? He wondered just where, exactly, the blond felt like going. He didn't get far in his inquiry, though. A small ball whistled over their heads and bounced across the road, causing both necks to crane towards the center of the park.

America seemed to fly out of his seat and he hustled back, ball in hand. He hollered, then launched it into the distance. He faced Lithuania and grinned. "Let's go. They might let us play," he said.

"Who . . .?" he started to ask, but America was already sprinting down a dirt path.

Lithuania abruptly stiffened on his feet. Should he follow? Wasn't _that_ an unnecessary question! The brunette wrung his hands and turned toward the path. It took a moment to convince himself it was safe, before he actually set foot on it. Dainty rows of trees greeted him on either side. After a few steps, there was a sharp turn in the path. He glanced back, the road and bench now out of sight. A shriek ripped through the air, and he sucked in his breath, freezing. Laughter trailed. Where was it coming from? There was a fork in the path up ahead. Which way? _Which way? _

He couldn't see America's footprints in the soil. There were too many on both paths. So it would be a complete guess. The Lithuanian closed his eyes, trying to relax, and sidestepped to the right. At the end, the path opened up to a large area with patches of grass stretching across larger patches of dirt. The ground declined to a small, mucky-looking pond, where the sources of commotion played. Among the children, all of them boys, there was America. He was significantly taller than even the tallest boy, though didn't look much more than a few years older.

He hurried over to join the crowd, realizing it would have been faster if he'd have gone left.

"Oh, there you are! Thought I lost you," America called.

The boys met him halfway, eying him curiously just as people on the street had.

"H-hello," Lithuania greeted.

"Hey, Mr. Al, izzat your friend you were talkin' about?" The smallest boy wiped his nose on his shoulder and peered up from under the bill of his hat.

Lithuania blinked as another boy, this one stocky with rosy cheeks, came up and tugged at the hem of his apron. "S'it a girl or a boy, Mr. Al?"

America chuckled. "Well, my friend's not an _it_, first of all. And what do you _think_?"

"Well," a third said slowly. "Your friend _is_ wearing an apron. With—is that a bear?—stitched on."

"And . . . the long hair," continued a fourth. He was the cleanest out of the bunch, with only a few smatterings of mud and sturdy shoes. "It-it's pretty, though," he added with a polite smile.

"I am a man," Lithuania insisted, brows furrowed. "See? I wear pants."

"Oh, we all know that, Toris. We're just playing with you," America said with another laugh.

"Toris? Where are _you_ from?" the tallest boy asked. Suddenly, the brunette found himself in the middle of the crowd. Everyone was talking at once, both quiet and loud. Some children were playing with his apron, and others reaching to touch his hair. He wasn't sure what to do, so he stared wide-eyed at America, whose face held a rather amused expression.

"Lithuania," he answered, feeling a little smothered.

"Do you know how to play?" the smallest asked.

"P-play?" Now everyone was quiet and gaping at him. Was it a challenge? A test? What if he didn't pass? He felt his stomachache coming back. _I shouldn't have eaten that dog,_ he thought.

"Yeah, Mister. Play," the tallest repeated spitting to the side.

"That, that depends on what we play. On the . . ."

"The game?" the polite boy offered. He grinned, showing gaps that adult teeth would soon fill.

Lithuania nodded. The crowd backed away toward America, consulting each other in whispers. Someone pulled on the American's sleeve, and he joined the boys, glancing at Lithuania every so often.

"I-I know basketball," he said, after watching them speechlessly became unbearable.

America looked up, and all the boys followed suit. One of them tossed a small ball towards the Lithuanian, who caught it by reflex. "D'you know how to play baseball?"

He shook his head.

The rosy boy smiled. "Well, today's your lucky day. We just happen to need one more player," he said, nodding his head toward the other boys. "_And_, I guess we got time to teach you a few things."

* * *

**AN;;**

**Guess what America said and I'll write you a oneshot. Well. Actually, no. The first person to guess correctly. Just guess in the reviews, and tell me what you want it to be about (it'll be Hetalia, of course).**

**Nothing crazy and explicit though.**

**I don't want someone going: "Write me a story where Turkey and Canada do it on the back of Poland's pony : Dc "**

**No. Just. Nothing like that. Gross. And I don't even know if it's possible. My brain is dead just thinking about it.**

**Okay, and I'm not going to go through _all that slang_. Sorry, if you were hoping I would.**

**This took way too long. And it's part one. So just remember that the next chapter is a continuation of this day, and not some other day.**

**And also know that this day is NOT a continuation of the day from the last chapter. 'Kay? 'Kay. Good.**

**Well.**

**AHHHHHHH**

**I realized that it should say phrases instead of words. You may or may not know what I'm talking about. n**

**Hot dogs are disgusting. They're like bologna and bologna makes me barf.**

**BUT that's not what I was going to say. The reason why they're eating hot dogs instead of hamburgers is because MickeyD's wasn't around in the twenties. And yes. Lemon Meringue pie is VERY American. It was invented in America by an American who made it for either Lewis or Clark when they came back from their expiditions.**

**Also, also-**

**I decided that England visits once a month, because in 1817, America and England made a treaty or pact or whatever to strengthen their bonds. It's apparently still in effect today.**

**OKAY SO I'M NOT AS GOOD AS GIVING INFO AS WIKIPEDIA AND OTHER SITES. But this should be accurate. If it's not, I'll have to recheck my sources.**


	4. Part 2

He raised a leaden arm up and wiped the sweat from his hairline. Apron discarded, sleeves rolled, he shifted from foot to foot until America was in place. "I'm going to throw," he called, squinting into the setting sun.

He could make out America adjusting the bat in his hands. "Go ahead," he called back.

Lithuania bounced the ball a few times in his grasp before bringing his arm back and sending the baseball through the air. He quickly cupped his hands, trying to shade his eyes from the sun. The ball went sailing. He smiled. It would be considered a good pitch.

Then America's attention was called away. The brunette couldn't tell what was happening exactly, but he could see the blond turn his head, glance up at the last second. He watched in horror as the ball struck his employer's head.

Lithuania gave a shout as a dazzling spray of water fanned out around the American, who now rested in the pond. He jerked his head back and forth to push the invading worries from his head and ran to his companion.

"You got quite a' arm, Mister," one of the boys said as he joined them. Some were helping the American sit up, patting his back. The tallest boy offered him a hand, which he took.

A bit wobbly at first, America scratched the back of his head, other hand placed on his hip. He gave a laugh. "The boy's right. You sure do, Toris."

But the Lithuanian wasn't listening. Now that he knew his friend was okay, his mind started fretting. He had hurt America. He had physically injured America. The soaking figure in front of him seemed harmless enough, but . . .

"What's the matter, buddy?"

Lithuania took a step back. "I'm . . ."

America took a step forward. His smile wavering.

The brunette's eyes widened. "A-a . . ."

"Hey, are you alright?" The country's face took on a look of concern as he started toward Lithuania.

Who started apologizing rapidly in Lithuanian, before switching to Enlish. He wrung his hands and continued to back up, gaining as much speed as America.

The American halted, and he echoed the motion. "I'm not—do you think I'm mad? Oh, Toris, I'm not angry with you. It was an accident! I shouldn't have looked at the frog. My bad." America raised his hands as if surrendering. "Okay?"

Guilty fear etched itself onto the Lithuanian's features. He warily approached.

"See? S'all fine," America said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Lithuania jolted back, sucking a strangled breath through his closing throat.

The American quickly pulled his hand away. "Are you feeling—?"

"I-I'm well. I j—I just . . ." He faltered, then started murmuring apologies in Lithuanian once more.

"Ah, Teddy, here," America said, gesturing to one of the boys. Lithuania looked over before returning his gaze to the American. Concern was clear on his face. "He, um, knows some Polish, if that's any help. Maybe you could, uh—I mean if you can't explain in English."

Lithuania's eyelids fluttered and his breath hitched. "I do not know Polish."

Something uneasy was palpable in the air. Lithuania's stomach knotted. He knew it was because of him. The boys fidgeted, and the one called Teddy fiddled with his suspenders, pretending not to notice.

Lithuania focused on a pebble a few feet in front of him.

"But Arther said—" The confused sound in America's voice almost made him ache.

"I do not know Polish," he repeated. And he decided he would _keep_ repeating it, until the matter was dropped.

"If you say so," America said after a while. Lithuania could see the American slide his foot across a dirt patch, barely in his line of vision. He sniffed. "Okay, boys," he said, raising his voice. "I think that's enough ball for t'day. Nearly dinner for you, isn't it?"

There were varying answers, although "Yes" was most common. After a short, awkward moment of exchanging uncomfortable glances, the crowd dispersed. Not so much as a goodbye was passed between people, for an almost instinctual feeling told them that one wrong word could set something of. What the something and the word was, they didn't know. And they didn't want to be the unlucky one to find out.

Lithuania realized that if America was going to seek revenge, he most likely wouldn't until they were back at the house. He held to this thought as they silently found their way back. Silence as they passed where they had earlier received food. Silence as Lithuania found the approximate spot where the drunk had approached across the street.

The city wasn't silent, of course. It continued in its loud, bustling fashion. Unseeing. Unknowing. And if it did know, probably uncaring. City people tended to keep to their own business. Lithuania had seen it before. He shook his head, trying to evade any oncoming thoughts that he'd rather not have on his mind.

America noticed, and seemed to take it as a signal to start a conversation. "Are you sure you're feeling well?" His face was shadowed, for the sun was well below the horizon, but somehow his eyes still managed to twinkle. He figured it was the moon.

Lithuania nodded, pressing his lips together. Was this it? They had only a few blocks left until they reached the American's house. It seemed so simple. So effortless. Ease into conversation. Bait him with feigned worry and an interesting topic. A pat on the back, concerned smile. Open the door, let him in first, take him to the cellar where the Englishman can't hear. This was America, so maybe something inventive to keep him quiet instead of a crushed windpipe. Lithuania shuddered. Tape? A gag rag? So elementary. There were plenty of objects able to draw blood, in the cellar. Some that could by brute force, breaking the skin, and others by delicately slicing. It wouldn't take America wanted it to. And, of course, unless—

America wrapped an arm around the Lithuanian. "Cold? Maybe we'll get that snow sooner than I thought! You know, I heard of this flower that blooms in snow . . . " Child's play.

No. No, _no!_ He wouldn't fall for it.

The Baltic ducked out from under America's arm and backed up. "I am not cold."

A strange smile crossed the American's face as he turned to look. "Okay . . . Hungry? We'll be home in a minute." The blond continued up the porch steps.

"It is not my home."

"Home is where the heart is?"

Lithuania bit his lip as America beckoned him forward. He was free. He did not have to follow America anywhere. But if he stopped working for him, would he be able to stay independent? Could he even consider himself independent if he was a housekeeper?

"Damn."

The single word crashed Lithuania's train of thought.

"It's locked," explained America when he noticed Lithuania's quizzical, suspecting eyes. He jiggled the knob as if to demonstrate he was telling the truth.

"I thought you didn't lock doors," Lithuania added, stating it more like a question.

America's brow furrowed. "I don't. But . . . _Artie_ does! So earlier wasn't enough to make him leave. Oh well, guess I'm glad, sort of. I just hope he didn't find the alcohol." America winced, looking almost sheepish, like a child imagining the punishment that followed getting caught.

Lithuania's eyebrows shot up. "Alcohol is illegal, and yet you have some?"

"Sh! Shh, not so loud," he whispered hoarsely, the sheepishness deepening as he glanced around.

Was this boy really capable of inflicting the revenge Lithuania was thinking of? His mental images wavered.

America tried all of the windows on the lower level of his house. The back door as well. A good fifteen minutes later, they were sitting on the porch steps, shoulders hunched and pressed together against the cold. It was this night Lithuania learned that America was not the best at breaking into houses. Especially his own.

After a moment's rest, America rolled his shoulders, then stood and stretched. "That crazy old bird. Locking up my house. But," he said, climbing the stairs and sitting on the porch railing. He grinned knowingly down at Lithuania. "I know one window he definitely didn't touch." With that, he hoisted himself to his feet, one hand gripping the overhang of his roof and an arm wrapped around the thin, wooden pole helping to keep it up.

"M-Mister Jones, that can't be safe!" Lithuania nearly shouted. He jumped up and over the stair rail right into the bushes, ready to catch the country if he fell.

The American let out a reckless laugh. "Of course it's not! But what's the worst that can happen? I'm young. You're in good shape. And I'm cold."

Lithuania took a deep breath and focused his eyes. "What can I do to help?" he asked through gritted teeth. This was not a good idea. This was definitely not a good idea.

"First of all, it's Alfred. Or Al. I'm not some old dapper. And second: Do you want to get on the roof, or shall I? Actually, you look a little more on the, er, scrawny side, no offense intended, so how 'bout you get up here and climb up on my shoulders?"

Lithuania's face betrayed him, deepening in pink. So he wasn't eating much, yet. It was simply his current phase of adjusting. That, and for the past few years, there hadn't _been_ a whole lot on the front—the brunette whipped his head back and forth. This was _not_ the time to think of such things.

He climbed out of the bushes and onto the porch, outside the railing. With the hand that was on the roof, America helped him to his feet. He shifted and shuffled, holding fast to the overhang since there wasn't a pole to hang on to on his side. "N-now what, um, Mister Alfred?" _Don't look down. Don't look down. Don't look dow—_

"Uh . . ." The American stared up for a good minute, obviously constructing the picture in his head. He crouched down, wobbling a little. "Hop on!"

_What. No. What? _"Hop . . . on? Hop _on?_ Mister Alfred!"

"No 'Mister' necessary."

"We will fall!" Lithuania exclaimed, eyes desperate for the key to know how to talk sense into the young man beside him.

"Well, if you go on talking all negatively, then yeah. We will."

The Lithuanian blinked.

"Aren't you cold?"

He swallowed. Then weakly nodded. "Taip. I will comply. On your shoulders? Should I stand?"

America flashed a smile. "Okay, here's the plan: You inch towards me, and sort of keep your hands on top of the roof, Push against it so that only your toes are on the rail. And, uh, and then step up on my shoulders—yes, step. Don't worry, it won't hurt—and I'll give you a boost. Use your arms to elbow your way up. Not your hands. If you slip, and you're using your hands, it'll take the skin right off. There will be a window right in front of you. It's the one to my bedroom and is always unlocked. Just . . . just get yourself in and try not to break anything. Got it?"

He took a breath. "Inch toward you, push against the roof to lessen my weight, step on your shoulders, use elbows, open window, and don't break anything."

"Good. Ready?"

Lithuania nodded.

"Let's go."

The Baltic crept closer to the American until he was able to swing one leg around him. "Are _you_ prepared?"

A swift nod.

Lithuania settled a foot on one of the blond's shoulders, then his other on the remaining, being sure to pull himself up as much as he could. There was a grunt, then America slowly stood, swaying dangerously. Lithuania quickly started shimmying up the roof. When the upper half of his body was stable, he let out a long sigh. America sounded better, as well.

"How you holding up?"

"I think I can reach it."

"Well, get the rest of you up there, and we'll be set."

"Taip." Lithuania stretched an arm, supporting himself with the other. He could almost reach . . . Just a little further. He couldn't help but smile from the rush of it all. He regretted not trusting the American's plan to work, but he could tell him later. Once they were inside and warm.

"Is everything okay?"

"O-oh, yes!" Lithuania started wriggle up some more, but something caught his eye. Right before attacking it. An evidently irritated bird ruffled its feathers, abruptly jumping out of its nest to squawk a warning. "I'm sorry, I will move," the country whispered as soothingly as he could. He started maneuvering to the left, away from the bird, but it seemed to take it the wrong way, and hopped right up to him, flapping angry wings. Grousing, and aiming its sharp beak at his eye. Lithuania yelped, the bird stabbing his arm. An instant too late, he realized he now had no arms supporting him, and he started sliding back down, roof taking his buttons on the way down. Flailing, scrabbling, kicking, he felt a foot connect with what he hoped for dear life wasn't America's head, but as he heard a holler and loud thump below, hope evidently failed him.

The Lithuanian was sure he would follow his employer to the ground, yet when he enclosed his hand around the bird and stopped thrashing, he found he hand stopped moving otherwise. He sucked in a ragged breath as the bird concentrated on pecking his hand bloody. Lithuania crawled completely onto the overhang, opened the window—unlocked, just like America said it would be—and tossed the bird into the air. Its wings shot out and caught an chilly breeze, but the creature did a roundabout and flew straight toward him. Eyes wide, Lithuania dove through the window, landing hard on the floor. Rolling over and bolting to his feet, he smacked the bird away, then slammed the window shut.

The glass rattled in its frame. Lithuania stood frozen, stunned. He turned away from the window and waded through the dark. He ran into the door at first, but as soon as it was open, he was feeling his way down the hall, down the stairs, and to the entryway. He undid the locks and bounded down the porch steps, afraid that if he jumped right off, his knees wouldn't hold him anymore. To his relief, America was awake, blood free, and simply sitting on the grass, stretching his neck.

"Mister Alfred."

America looked up. He grinned and accepted the hand Lithuania offered. "Quite an adventure, wasn't it?"

Lithuania didn't respond as the made their way up the steps. An adventure. That's all he thought of it. Judging his racing heart and throbbing hand, Lithuania felt it was more of a dangerous fool's stunt. He didn't dare say so, favoring to keep any punishment coming as minuscule as possible.

In the living room, the only room with a lamp on, they found a slumbering England nestled on the couch. A book laying pages-down on his chest. America sighed, slipping the country's shoes off and handing them to Lithuania. He hooked an arm under England's knees and slid the other under his shoulders. Lifting him and signaling Lithuania to follow, they started slowly up the stairs. America stopped at his own door, sticking a foot out to make sure it was open, then smoothly gliding around the familiar place, and setting him on the bed. Eyes accustomed to the dark, Lithuania watched as America carefully pulled his blankets up under the Englishman's chin. He beckoned Lithuania over and motioned him to set the shoes by the nightstand. America grabbed the unused pillow on the other side of the bed and they left the man to sleep.

Downstairs, America went straight to the kitchen, turned on the light, and took out all of the ingredients to make hot chocolate.

"I-I will," Lithuania said, stepping closer.

The country waved him away. "It's fine. I like making cocoa."

Lithuania bowed his head. He was tired and aching and figured America probably felt worse. The Lithuanian grabbed a rag, covered some ice with it from the icebox. He went right up to America and pressed it to the purplish lump on his head.

America sucked in a breath and pulled away.

"For your bump," Lithuania clarified.

The blond nodded, understanding, and gingerly leaned into the makeshift cold-pack. He winced at first, then held it himself and seemed completely untroubled by it.

"I am sorry for doubting you."

"What?" The bewildered look was back.

"I am sorry. I did not think your plan would succeed."

America chuckled. "It's fine. Fine! You're forgiven. To tell you the truth, I wasn't so sure it would work, either." He laughed again when Lithuania's eyebrows shot up.

The stupidity of it all. The danger. The damage. The situation felt extremely familiar. All that was missing was the reliably overconfident, slightly unusual pattern of speech he knew so well— Lithuania's stomach clenched and eyes burned. "Ah-Mi-Alfred," he uttered softly.

The other country looked up, stirring slowed.

"I-I actually don't feel so . . . I—may I go to bed?"

"Sure, pal. You don't need to ask."

"I will wash the dishes in the morning, do not worry."

"It's fine, I'll get 'em. If you're tired, you're tired. Get some sleep, okay? Oh—and you might want to wash that hand."

Lithuania's eyes widened. He looked down, seeing blood trickle unceremoniously off his hand. He was leaving a trail of blood! Tracking it all through the house! Oh, he hoped it wasn't everywhere. It was definitely in the kitchen, probably in the hall, as well. "I-I will clean the floor! I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I-I did not meant to, I—"

"Hey, hey," America interrupted, pointing his whisk at him. Lithuania watched the liquid drip onto the floor, right next to a drop of red. "Not a problem. Calm down. No big deal. Tend to that hand and hit the ha—er, get some sleep."

The only sound was clock's monotonous ticking. Lithuania nodded slowly. He backed to the door. "G-goodnight, Mi—Alfred."

"Sleep tight, Toris."

* * *

**AN;;**

**I have one question for the two of you: WHY DIDN'T YOU TRY KNOCKING?**

**Sometimes simpler is the way to go.**

**The boy's actual name was Teodor, the Polish variant of Theodore, if anyone was wondering. He was called Teddy after late and former president Theodore Roosevelt.**

**You may be wondering why Lithuania acted that way, since he obviously _does_ know Polish.**

**Look up Vilnius Dispute if you are unfamiliar with it.  
**

**Lithuania had issues. Poland taking Vilnius, Russia being all grabby hands and deceitfully friendly ono **

**I have no idea what the quality of this is. I wrote it at, like, two in the morning, and am probably going to edit it, soon.**

**Bah! I was going to say so much more, but I forgot what it was. It like, I write and write and go "Oh, I want to comment on this in the note at the end!" **

**And then I forget. =.=  
**


	5. Creative Title Goes Here

For weeks, Lithuania stayed on his toes. He jumped at every sudden movement, wedged a chair under his doorknob before he went to bed each night, spoke only when spoken to; waiting, waiting.

But the punishment never came.

After the first few days, his hand healed and was completely usable. He started gaining confidence in the hope that maybe America really _had_ forgiven him.

Another day passed. England left. It seemed to be quite an affair, with tea, pacing, fretting over his driver being late, and dangling bait for an argument in front of America. Of course he took it. America seemed to be very generous and take anything someone desperately offered. Even if it made him look absurd.

The house became extremely quiet following the Englishman's leave. Lithuania savored the hours each day that America spent at work. Hours he could rely on being safe. It was during the long, merciless nights his imagination smothered everything good he knew about the American out of existence. Paranoia shirked in, wrapping icy tendrils around his throat. Blinding him to everything but America's rare frown, moments of uneasy silence.

Finally, on a bleak, Saturday morning, America confronted him.

Lithuania was standing by the living room window, attention captured by the rattle of the window panes as autumn rain pounded against the glass. America came up beside him, tapping it with a finger. "Are you okay?"

Lithuania stiffened. Was this a test? Maybe a game. America liked games. He didn't want to say the wrong answer, but he doubted he knew the right one. "H-how do you mean, Mi—" He swallowed, catching himself. After a deep breath, he continued, "Alfred?" Lithuania squeezed his eyes shut at the sight of America furrowing his brow. Wrong, wrong! He was probably cheating, and now America had another thing to punish him for!

"I mean _that_. What you just did. Are you sick? Was it the bird? Maybe . . . maybe it was diseased. I need to know, I'm your caretaker!" America's distressed voice was nearly heartbreaking. Lithuania realized this was probably why he usually got what he wanted. What kind of honest person—or country—would want to be the cause of that tone in his voice?

The brunette bit the inside of his lip and shook his head. "I do not think I am ill."

"And aparently, crazy people don't think they're crazy."

Lithuania's eyes snapped open. Was he doubting his word? A spark of irritation ignited inside him, only to be promptly dampened by the knowledge that he had been doing the exact same thing with the blond for nearly his whole stay. "I am not ill," he said more wearily than he meant to sound.

But America hadn't missed a beat. "Angry, then." Lithuania silently cursed his own luck. How was it he always ended up with people smarter and more attentive than they let on? And why did they always make sure _he_ knew?

"W-why?" he asked, hoping America would bring up the other moment so he could tell him he was mistaken.

"Well," the American started slowly. "First, there's Sammy. And he touched your hair. I teased you about there being dog in the hot dogs . . ." He seemed to falter, unsure if he should say the next words on his tongue.

_Oh, no,_ Lithuania thought. _Please. Please, Mr. Jones, just skip it. _He was surprised enough at the American for bringing all of these trivial matters to light. He didn't think he could handle actually being angry.

They quieted, both concentrating on the raindrops running down the window, grouping into bigger drops, or splattering away from the impact of new ones. The world outside was water-streaked, gray, and cold.

America took a sharp breath. Lithuania could feel his eyes boaring into the side of his head, but he resisted the urge to look. "There's the bird, too. That never would have happened if, um, I listened to you. I also didn't save you any hot chocolate. And you had to deal with Arthur moping around after he finished his novel. And about losing your apron. Then your shirt's buttons—"

Was all this really troubling the American? They were like mirrors of each other. Both hoping the other would forgive them for all the offense they thought they committed. Lithuania hung his head.

"—are you—Toris? Are you well?" America grabbed his shoulders as if to sturdy him if his legs gave.

But the Lithuanian looked up with a smile. "Mi—Alfred, I am not angry about any of that."

America's hands retreated, and froze in the air. "Oh," he said rather disconnectedly. Lithuania could almost see behind his blue eyes and watch him try to process this.

And for a moment, Lithuania returned to his trusting self. Maybe America wasn't like his twisted nighttime imagination viewed him. In daylight, those thoughts seemed almost childish . . . though he knew in another far off land, they were absolutely not. But this was America, and he just had to ask:

"Ar—are you angry with _me_?"

The blond arched an eyebrow, breaking off his train of thought, then beamed. "Of course not! The baseball thing—I know it was an accident. And even though I came down with that cold, gee, that was nothing. Same when you got me in the head the second time. They were my fault; I had it comin'," he said easily.

Something snapped inside him. Lithuania shuddered and his legs nearly _did_ give out. Cool relief flooded through him, yet suspicion still tainted the water. And then guilt poisoned it. He wanted to believe the American. For the first time, he realized just how much he wanted to believe. But how could he? How could he trust this country in front of him? Because he hadn't raised a hand to him? How could he be sure that would last? Lithuania wanted to bang his head against the window. Anything to stifle his thoughts. To stop the forming doubts in their tracks.

"Um." America lead him to a chair, went into the kitchen to get him a glass of water. The Baltic held his head in his hands. He focused on the rug and tried to clear his mind. When America returned, there was a crease between his brows. "Are you positive you're not ill?"

"No—I mean—I am not ill. I am certain. It-it's—I—just . . ." Lithuania sipped at his water. It was pointless to lie, so he looked America square in the eye. "I am sorry. I do not think I can-t-trust-to n-n-not—" He gritted his teeth, cutting himself off. Stuttering was no good! He had to say it. He had to—

"I understand." America's eyes were dead serious. Once again, the only sound was the beating rain. Lithuania couldn't even hear his own heart.

He bowed his head and clenched is hands around his glass. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Do . . . you want to, er, talk about it?"

His barely shook his head, slumping in the chair.

"Toris?" He looked up, seeing blue eyes burn with determination. "I just want you know . . . that . . ." He scratched his head, groping for words. The right words. "That I . . . won't—I mean—I . . ." he broke off again, deep in thought.

Lithuania smiled. "I, too, understand."

America stared out the window for several minutes. His face still held the softness of a child's. A knowing of the world that Lithuania knew he himself had long forgotten. Would there be a day when the American, too, lost that look? When he would be beaten and bloodied, dignity trampled, pride stolen? Lithuania pursed his lips. He hoped not.

"Well, now that _that's_ cleared up," America cheerfully sighed, shamelessly mentioning their previous conversation as if it was merely a tiny spat among friends. Lithuania almost admired how easily America could make the heaviness of the atmosphere dissipate. "It's time I teach you how to dance."

" . . . Dance?"

"Yes! For the Halloween party. It's in about a week-and-a-half, so . . ."

Lithuanian nodded, setting his glass on a coaster and standing up with America. "I will do my best to learn whatever you teach."

"Glad t'hear that, pal."

Lithuania smiled.

"Okay. Time to learn the Charleston."

Lithuania had confidence in his dancing skills. A certain fair-haired, green-eyed nation had made sure his dancing maintained flawlessness for hundreds of years. Because of this, he didn't completely drown in the complicated steps and sliding that made the Charleston what it was. America seemed pleased by this. But he still had to remind the Lithuanian to stay on his toes. He learned how to dance solo. Then partnered, learning the woman's part first before the man's.

Lithuania especially enjoyed watching America dance. The way he was able to swing the bottom half of his legs sideways with graceful jerkiness was inhuman. Oxymoronic. But apparently, in his cities, many young American danced like this. They labored for hours a day to learn this, though it seemed like it had to be a skill, a knack a person was born with. Not something able to be mastered with merciless practice.

And merciless America was.

The blond wound up his battered phonograph and set the needle on the record. They ran through the Charleston, Foxtrot, Quickstep—anything America could remember off the top of his head. It was constant dancing, constant absorbing. And every so often, a break if they had to clean up the shattered remains of a lamp or vase that was knocked off a table by an ill-placed kick or dip.

By dinnertime, Lithuania's stomach was begging for food. It felt as if his kneecaps had liquefied, and his feet would bleed if he took one more step. America was sprawled on the floor, trying to catch his breath. Lithuania was poised carefully in a chair, trying not to lean on any part of his body that ached. Which he found to be rather pointless, since he ached all over. His muscles were tight, heart throbbing. He wiped sweat from his hairline and relaxed into the cushions. His joints silently screamed in protest, causing him to freeze and cringe before he was able to settle.

"Well,Toris. You're a pretty good dancer. A real Oliver Twist." America sighed contentedly, flapping a lazy hand in the air.

A tired smile found its way to his face. "You are also a good dancer," he replied.

"Care to share any dances from _your_ country?"

Lithuania's eyelids slid shut and he pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't want to get up. He didn't know if he could if he tried.

A wheezy chuckle filled the room. "S'fine," America said, comprehending the body language. His arm fell back to the floor with a dull thud. He groaned and stretched. "Man, I'm sore."

"Mm."

Their breathing slowed; it became harmonious. Lithuania stared at the ceiling, mind pleasantly blank and echoing his heartbeat.

"Toris?"

"Hm?"

"What should we be for Halloween?"

The Lithuanian didn't know where America still found energy to push air out of his lungs and form words. "I . . . am not well-acquainted with . . . a typical American . . . Halloween costume."

"Mmm, yeah. I f'rgot."

The conversation deadened, and neither attempted to revive it. The quiet wasn't awkward or forced, more-so serene. The tick of the clock, patter of the rain, rhythm of their breathing—all of it meshed into a seemingly natural lullaby. Lithuania's lids droop. One more deep breath; a yawn. Then everything faded to a fuzzy blur.

He lost all sense of time, but decided it was probably late when he felt America nudge him. Then the world shifted and he was faintly aware of being carried to his room. His shoes were removed, and covers pulled up under his chin. It seemed like déjà vu and yet he couldn't quite place why it was familiar. He slipped away from the consciousness with that thought on his mind.

The rest of the week passed in the same fashion after the blond came home from work. By Friday, America was constantly laughing at how stiffly they walked. Lithuania fretted over their health and the state of the house, but America always pulled him into another dance if he mentioned it. At first, Lithuania wondered if this was an American version of punishment, but it seemed too enjoyable, too lighthearted to be such. Then he wondered if America was always so enthusiastic in what he did. From all he saw of the country, that was how it appeared. Meals weren't just breaks in the day to refuel. He ate with gusto. Getting ready for bed wasn't as simple and relaxing as someone might guess. It consisted of smooth music blaring from the radio, warm milk, and a tooth-brushing party. Mornings weren't a time for simply getting ready. It was a time for frenzy and drinking one-too-many cups of coffee. And days off _definitely_ weren't just days off. Life with America never grew boring.

It was Saturday morning, and Lithuania could hardly believe that only a week ago, he didn't know what the Charleston was. They had four days to go until the party, and still needed costumes. America decided that he would be a clown and Lithuania could be a goblin. The city's streets were less crowded because of the bad weather, but it was as if every young adult had waited until today to go party-shopping.

Though the rain had stopped, things only got colder, and puddles froze into brittle ice that crunched like thin layers of glass under hundreds of feet. The wind suck the breath right out of anyone daring enough to face it head on, and the sun offered no sense of warmth whatsoever. America assured the brunette that it was only a pre-winter cold snap; the weather would warm up maybe one more time before winter decided to hit.

The two sought shelter anywhere they could. By the end of the day, they accumulated face paint, white powder, a black button-up shirt for Lithuania (as well as a few more white ones, since America found out he only had two, and one of them was ruined when they broke into the house), an apron, several yards of yellow cloth, light blue cloth, and white with red polka-dots, black fabric, and white gloves.

Lithuania felt like a horrible housekeeper. Not only had America bought him shirts he could have paid for himself, but America also insisted on carrying most of their things.

"P-please, Mi—Alfred, Let me carry _something,_" he pleaded.

"Oh, hush," America said, mimicking a cross parent.

Lithuania closed his mouth and fell into step behind his shoulder. Once they reached the house, he bounded up the steps first, and held open the door, staying clear of the blond's full armload.

"So!" America exclaimed, dumping it all on the floor.

Lithuania clapped a hand over his mouth to muffle a protesting squeak. All that new fabric—there, on the floor! He hadn't even had a chance to sweep, yet, today! And the nail paint—what if it's bottle broke?

America squinted at him, then shook his head and continued: "I'm not super at sewing, but I can handle a needle pretty well."

"Really?"

"Who do you think taught Betsy Ross how to sew?"

Lithuania racked his brain for who that might be. He realized the question wasn't rhetorical, so stammered: "Y-you?"

America chuckled. "No, her mother probably did. I don't know for sure. I met her, once, though."

A smile crossed his face. "Do you have a sewing machine?"

America's brow furrowed. "Actually, I don't think I do. Sorry," he said with a helpless shrug.

"That is fine. Where is the thread?"

"I'll get it!"

With that, America bolted around the house while Lithuania busied himself with organizing and ironing the cloth. America came back with a very old and neglected-looking sewing box, where he found some measuring tape and took the blond's measurements, scrawled them on a piece of paper America supplied, and also took his own.

After dinner was supposed to be devoted to sketching patterns, but America decided he had to show Lithuania what an American goblin looked like, which lead to drawing pumpkins as well as other strange doodles, making paper airplanes, cutting snowflakes, and storytelling, all while the radio played upbeat tunes.

Lithuania went to bed happy and slightly wondering if they'd actually succeed in finishing the costumes come Wednesday.

* * *

**AN;; This chapter is kinda filled with drabble, I know. But it's necessary drabble. =w=**

**Apparently drabble isn't a word. I hope you still understand what I mean.**

**Sooo yes. They made up~ I can't really imagine America as the type of person that WON'T confront someone he's having a, er, tense time with.**

**Unless he's actually angry at them.  
**

**That, and Lithuania needs to get over thinking America's going to turn into another Russia. Or Poland. Bad, Lithuania. America is America.**

**eue;;**

**Okay, okay, I understand you, Liet. I didn't mean it so harshlyyy /hugs**

**/coughcough**

**Yesterday I took a test where I had to write an essay. It took me four hours to write that essay. And it will decide if I pass the ninth grade. o.o**

**I really, _really_ hope I pass.**

**;;ono`**

**Oh, and I found out what kitchen matches looked like.**

**And I was reading children's chapter books. Dude. I forgot how awesome those things are. A chipmunk named Alfred and woodchuck named Arthur? : D**

**Epic.**

**-big lapse in time that you don't really notice where I do a buuuuunch of stuff-**

**I was just in the car. And there was a guy on a unicycle riding along the shoulder of the highway. And the sun even tried to come out today (though . . . failed. But there's still hope!). **

**Today has been pretty awesome, all in all~**


	6. Trick or Treat?

Both countries had showered, both faces scrubbed clean, teeth brushed, hair combed, and for America, glasses shined.

This was it. Halloween had steadily loomed in the phrase "Just a few more days" until it seemed as common and relaxed as "Maybe I'll get to fixing that". Because of this, Lithuania didn't feel much urgency until the night of the party. It sunk in that this wasn't like a squeaky floorboard or rattling windows when America told him the bathroom was free. Luckily, the panic didn't come until it was too late to back out.

_If I had a choice to back out in the first place,_ the Baltic reflected. Over the weeks he quickly realized that his ability to refuse had once again left him. Though this time it was from fear of not being accepted. For days Lithuania found this feeling strange. Familiar as it was, with all new places he found himself, he couldn't ever get used to it.

His thoughts were scrambled as a pair of hands started unbuttoning his collar. "M-Mister—ah, I mean, Alf-f—"

"Just the top one," America interjected firmly. "It'll be hot in there, and you don't want to look stiff."

Lithuania gulped before nodding. "No" had erased itself from his vocabulary. He adjusted his collar, the new-shirt feeling was always slightly uncomfortable at first, but he knew if he ignored it, it wouldn't be a bother. The black fabric seemed unusually dark in the presence of grinning America, but he was a goblin, and goblins were supposed to be dark, as well as mysterious. Or so the blond told him.

Said blond looked utterly ridiculous in his baggy clown suit. Half of it white with red polka-dots, and the other half split into two fourths; the top blue and bottom yellow. A large, floppy, white collar was sewn around the neck, the thin layer of frill on the end constantly catching the air and making it billow. The same around his wrists and ankles. But since it was Halloween, it was okay to look ridiculous. American even appeared to be _delighted_ to look as such. He was concentrating on fumbling with a thick, red, velvet ribbon he dug up from somewhere in the house, which wasn't working as planned, with his white gloves diminishing his dexterity.

Lithuania felt a smile tug on his features as he reached over and tied the big bow. He glanced up at America, eyes locking into a stare so serious, the Baltic wondered for a second if he did something wrong. Then the American crossed his eyes, looking so strange that Lithuania felt his own grow huge. America broke into laughter that was so light-hearted, it was contagious. For a moment it was all that filled him, worries smooshed to nothingness.

The moment ended too quick, and America was all business. He removed his gloves and opened the face paints and powder, sitting Lithuania in a chair and scooting another one directly in front. The Baltic squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to grimace or breathe as America turned his face ghastly pale with the powder. Blinking away fine white, he took the fuzzy-looking thing from the American hands. He could powder his own neck. As he started, the blond scooped up some green face paint, and before the first protest could travel from his brain to his lips, America was smearing the cold paint along his jaw.

He could feel the paint travel up in front of his ears, past his temples to his hairline, and cover most of his forehead. It only took a split-second to see that America was going to get artistically carried away, so Lithuania focused on the big, red bow and tried to will his stomach to untangle itself before the party.

It almost worked, but when America started running his green-covered hand through Lithuania's just-washed, just-combed hair, the brunette had to stifle a gasp.

"Don't worry, I won't mess it up. It just needs some green."

America said this as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Which it wasn't. It definitely wasn't. It was not. How coul—

"Now you paint me."

A thought flashed across his mind. It would be so easy to fling the paints away, shout, holler, flail his arms, stomp off to his room and refuse to go to the party. To throw a fit. But a fit over hair? Lithuania pursed his lips. The thought died away as he steeled his mind from an oncoming thought of a certain country he refused to acknowledge.

Lithuania forced a smile and took the paints. Covered the blond's face in white. He smeared a red circle onto America's nose, carefully painted black diamonds around his eyes, a star on the right cheek, triangle on the left. A huge, red, goofy smile painted on, just as directed.

They both went in the bathroom to wash the paint from their hands before it stained. Lithuania looked up to inspect his hair, but his face caught his attention instead.

Rich green framed his face; blended to white under his chin. Green smudged from his hairline down to under his cheekbones, to the corners of his eyes, and eyebrows. From his forehead, it went down the sides on his nose, making it seem shadowed and thin. Other than that, his face was white and slightly shimmery. He tried to make his eyes smaller, but the lids wouldn't close, so he finally tore his gaze away from the image in the mirror.

"Pretty neat, huh?"

Lithuania wasn't sure if he was scared or thrilled. Either way, he wished his stomach would settle.

America adjusted his cloak for him, experimenting with the hood before finally leaving it down. He left Lithuania in the bathroom for a moment, then came back with his wallet. He took out what looked like was his driving license and money before tossing it toward a side table in the hallway and missing. Not seeming to notice, he smoothed out two dollar bills and handed them to the Baltic.

He almost couldn't believe it. He had enough money in one hand to feed more than one family, and he was expected to spend it on frivolous things, if he used it at all. America had handed it over so _blithely_, like it was the most normal thing in the world. How could it be that while his country could be facing such difficult times, the American's country had time and money to throw parties for people that spent even _more_ money making ridiculous costumes just so they could attend without losing social standing? Sometimes situations astounded the Lithuanian.

Yet he decided he would still go. He would save his money from every event he went to, with America, and when it came time to go home, he would exchange the American dollars then use it to help his people. He was unsure of the details, still, but he had time to plan just how he would use it.

"See here, it's a bad idea to bring wallets or anything to a party. Lots of people, lots of bumping around—perfect place for a pick-pocket, right?"

Lithuania nodded.

They folded and tucked their money into their shoes, America grabbed a light jacket—"Just in case"—and were out the door.

The night air was merciless. It bit and prodded, the wind suffocating. The Baltic was thoroughly thankful for his velvet cloak, which trapped the heat almost as well as the house did. America shivered, but the smile didn't leave his face. Lithuania realized he was looked at the painted smile, and in the dark, he couldn't tell if his actual mouth was turned up. His eyes were smiling, though, so he supposed it was.

Did he find everything fun? Lithuania recalled that the only times he ever saw the American _not_ smile—he wasn't even sure if he could call it a frown—was when he was surprised or caught off-guard, when he reenacting stories about his day that included "Mrs. Grundies", when he was pretending to be one himself, and when they were locked out of the house.

He heard America tell him to get in the car, or else they'd be late. He absently obeyed, mind still far off.

How could someone be so happy? For so long, at that! Lithuania tried and couldn't remember back to when he was America's age. Such a long time ago—he was so little, so _young_. Hardly anything more than a child. If only he could remember if he had been happy or not.

The Baltic smiled. Was he seriously hoping that his younger self was happy, however many years ago? What did it matter, anymore? Would America think it mattered? Lithuania glanced at the whistling country who was busy thumping a rhythm into the steering wheel. He had no idea what went on in his employer's head. Part of him could imagine America telling him that the past was the past; people live in the present and aim for the future. It wasn't important if he was happy or not—the question was if he was now. The other part could just as well imagine him saying that it definitely mattered. That it is all of the little things—like childhood happiness—that are crucial to building a person's character. That it's the past that decides who a man is today.

Lithuania figured that if he actually asked America, the chance that he would answer one way instead of the other would be the same as flipping a coin.

"Aw, horsefeathers. Forgot my watch."

The Baltic tensed, relaxed, then processed the question. "M-maybe there is—there will be a clock inside?"

America stopped beating the wheel for a second and looked up, as if deep in thought.

For a second, Lithuania's heart seemed to beat so loud his ribs hurt, even though there was nobody to run into. But there were still trees. And street lights. And what if there were pedestrians? Should he grab the wheel? How could America take is eyes off the road while driving?

"Maybe." The rhythm started again, and the road was watched by two pairs of eyes.

He wilted into the side of the car, head rattling with each bump in the road. He had to be calm! He had to be calm, then stay calm. Composure. Cool. Decorum. Relaxedness? Was that a word? America would probably say that if it wasn't, it might as well be. England, on the other hand, would tell him that it most certainly was not. His eyes slipped closed. Why make it a dilemma? His mind needed to stop wandering. He had to concentrate. Concentrate on having fun? Lithuania frowned.

"Toris."

He straightened and snapped his eyes open. "Y-yes?"

America was finding a place in the crack of the seat to stuff his license. He looked up. "Stop thinking."

Lithuania felt his head nod. It was worth a try.

The blond opened his door and hopped out of the car. The Baltic copied.

When had it stopped? So this was it? They were parked in an what appeared to be a vacant lot that was now littered with cars and young adults. _Everyone_ looked so young. Could it really be considered appropriate for them to associate themselves with these people? Actually, America fit right in. Lithuania knew that he didn't look very old, either, but that didn't mean his _mind_ wasn't old—

"_Toris_." America grabbed the hood to his cloak and pulled it over his head so that he couldn't see.

"A-ah, T-tai—" Lithuania cut himself off and restarted, slowly lifting his hood back up. "Y-yes, M—Alfred. I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to thi—"

America grinned. "Hey, it's fine, pal. No need to apologize. Just . . . stop thinking and, you know, have fun." He tucked a couple cigarettes into the Baltic's shirt pocket.

The Baltic sucked in a breath and nodded. _Fun. No thinking. Fun. No thinking. Fun . . ._

He could hear the party, first, the cold air carrying sound farther than usual. Then, he could smell it. Cigarette smoke, sweat, paint, perfume—it all became stronger as the smell of automobiles faded. They went from walking side-by-side to single file as the trickle of people grew and tightened. Everyone seemed to be roaring; roaring laughter, stories, insults, tricks, jokes, songs—some even roaring for fun. The thought crossed over his mind to reach out and grab the back of America's floppy collar so they wouldn't be separated, but he pushed that away. Lithuania wasn't a child. If he got lost, he would just have to look for a clown.

Which was exactly what happened. The Baltic silently scolded himself. He had been too busy thinking! Yet, how could he _not_ think when he was surrounded by so many people? The last time he was immersed in a crowd at night, he was uniformed and armed.

Lithuania froze. _No thinking, no thinking, no thinking._There were sounds of irritation from behind. The current of the crowd didn't let him stay motionless for long.

The faint sound of music drifted out of the building just ahead. He followed the person in front of him, idly wondering why they had a white sheet drape over them. They went through double-doors, down a short, dark hallway, and descended a wide, long, yet shallow staircase. The white figure in front of him was eerie, catching all the light that his hand couldn't. Or so Lithuania figured, since he could see it, and not his hand when it was so close to his face, it brushed against his nose.

He lowered his hand back to the railing, only to find that he had reached the end. His feet found out last, and he stumbled into the person ahead. There was an outburst of displeasure that he could barely hear over the commotion. "So's your old man!" was the reply to his apology. The sheeted figure disappeared in the crowd, and the Baltic felt himself being engulfed, as well.

His brain could barely register a dancing song start; the crowd quieted and made a sloppy U-shape around the source. The room was poorly lit, though no one seemed to mind. He wriggled to the front, barely caught himself from being pushed onto the makeshift dance floor, and took a tight breath. _Fun. Have fun._

His first thought was to find America and "stick like glue" to his side, as the saying went. But then he would risk being considered a wet blanket. Or was it towel? Lithuania frowned. _No thinking!_

He spotted another current of people trickling through a smoky doorway. Maybe after exploring a little, he could stay wherever he found most comfortable and wait until he found America. That definitely sounded like something a wet _whatever_ would do, but it was a start.

He dodged a few erratic dancers that were dangerously close to the edge of the crowd and joined the people going through the door. Smoke hit his face like a dirty, deceitful wall. It weaved through his costume and intertwined itself in his hair as if settling for a long and cozy stay. Lithuania would make sure that wouldn't be.

He hesitated before walking more freely through the quieter, scantier crowd. If it wasn't for the haze, he knew the room would have better lighting. But under the circumstances, that was not the case. He blinked repeatedly and tried to adjust. His breathing became much more shallow, and he had to squint to keep his eyes from watering. It had been a long time since he smoked a cigarette. And forever, since he smoked a cigar, which was another scent he could identify.

Toward the center of the room, someone started nudging him, muttering something. No, they were trying to give him something. Lithuania tried to back away, but they stayed close. Did they mistake him for someone? "A-a-ah, I-I, ah, don—"

"Just a few clams, it's a party, you know, lighten up, right? Just a few, a discount, it's a party, Halloween, do you some good . . ."

The person was talking so fast, he could barely understand. Money? Did they want money? Clams were money. A . . . discount. They wanted to sell him something.

"Okay, you can just convince that tomato to head this way, yeah, instead of pay, I think she'll buy, pretty well-off dapper, that dame's got. Just send her over. Here, and advance. Not too difficult, just—"

"Don't take it," a voice said by his ear. America? A hand loosely grabbed the back of his neck and directed him away from the man, forcing him to walk quickly to the other side of the room. He was walking through a suffocating fog with crazily-dressed young adults. How _on Earth_ did the blond find him? He heard America chuckle in response to something he didn't realize he'd said. "I'm the hero. It's part of my job to find people in trouble."

Lithuania smiled slightly at the joke. "The truth?"

The American howled, flailing his arms out so he had room to dramatically clutch his heart. The Baltic jumped out of the way; he had learned to coordinate himself around these spontaneous outbursts over the weeks. "That hurts. So _much!_"

He blinked. It wasn't a joke? "I-I am sorry, I-I—"

America sniffed. "S'okay. They're all nonbelievers when they first get t'know me," he mumbled, leading him through a room full of tables.

Lithuania felt his face get hot from the unintentional offense he caused, albeit he wasn't so sure the offended feeling was genuine, on America's part. His eyes and body, once again, told two different stories.

"I am confused," the Baltic started. Maybe a change in subject was appropriate? "Where are we?"

They occupied opposite ends of an empty table. America leaned forward so he would have to shout. Lithuania mimicked the motion. "It's an abandoned warehouse. A guy I know is, er, renting it." The way he said it, the brunette doubted that was the only exchange between owner and the man America knew. "He sorta . . . _renovated _. . . the basement into a kind of business." America wiggled his eyebrows, as though Lithuania was supposed to catch the hint.

But the Baltic was lost when it came to reading between American lines. "Business?" he repeated a little more softly.

"It's a speakeasy, Toris."

"A . . . speakeasy."

America nodded.

"What is a speakeasy?"

"I'll tell you on our way back. Deal?"

"A-ah, yes? Deal." He felt rather stupid, not knowing what America was talking about. Was it something bad? Why would America take them to a place where bad stuff happens? But "speak" and "easy" were not bad words, were they? They did not mean anything bad when he was learning England's English, though he knew America's way of speaking was much different.

"Mi—Alfred? W-what was that man trying to offer me?" _And why didn't you want me to accept?_ his mind added.

"Hm—oh. Just coke. Who knows where he got it. If you want cocaine, it's better to have a reliable source. You know?"

Lithuania hesitated. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and slowly shook his head. No, he did not know. His hands clenched to fists in his lap. For the first time since coming to America, he felt absolutely foreign. And rural. And childish. Not to mention extremely small, surrounded by mingling young people who knew what they were doing. To them, this was just a normal Halloween party in a place they probably went to regularly. To him, it felt like another form of torture.

_Ne! Nr mąstymas!_ He wasn't going to fail. It would just take some time to become familiar. Everyone he saw had a first experience. Good or bad, this would be his. Then it would be over, and he could decide how to move on from there.

Suddenly, his chin jiggled, causing him to jump back and nearly topple his chair. Eyes open, he saw that is was America. If anything was familiar, it was that look of concern. Lithuania theorized that he had missed America's response, and that his unusual posture made him seem unwell. He tried to smile reassuringly.

"D'you need a drink?"

Lithuania's movements suspended. He _was_ thirsty. The smoke and heat and stuffy area were probably the reasons. Those and the cold air.

"Yeah, let's get you a drink," America decided for him. He left, then returned momentarily with two mugs.

That's when it dawned on the Baltic that by "drink", America didn't mean a drink of water. His eyes widened. "M-m—Al-Alfred! This!" His voice faltered in disbelief.

America was casually drinking from his mug. "Is alcohol?"

"Is _illegal!_"

He shrugged.

This was America's idea of _fun_? Dressing up in costumes, joining crowds of loud young adults, and breaking the law? Lithuania wanted no part of this! What if the police found out? What if the police found _him_? He could be sent back to his country! Worse—he could be thrown in prison and be stuck in America, unable to _go_ home! And what would happen when twenty years passed, and he still looked young? Wait, what would happen to him as a nation, away from his country for so long? How—

"Hey, hey! It's fine."

Lithuania realized he had been voicing his thoughts. Judging by America's partially amused, partially confused expression, he had been voicing his thoughts in Lithuanian. "No, it is _not_ fine," he said, switching over. "What about the polic—"

"Don't worry, don't _worry_. Nobody's gonna get pinched. The guy who patrols these parts is a loyal customer." America was so confident. It was hard not to believe him.

"If . . . if this place—this, this speakeasy?—is illegal, it is a secret. Correct?"

"Yup."

"Bu-but what if a person tells? Tells, the, um . . ." Lithuania wasn't sure how to word it, but America nodded.

"Then the person told is payed off."

"If they do not accept the money?"

"Then . . . they're bumped off."

Lithuania wanted to flee. He wanted to run out into the crisp, night air and rid himself of this clammy, foreboding feeling.

"Uh, you see him, over there? Mitchie?" America nodded his head toward a very tall, bulky, bald man that stood at the end of the bar Lithuania hadn't noticed was there. "Well, he, uh, takes them for a ride, and—" America swiped his hand under his neck, making a crackling sound.

Lithuania slouched. He understood. How could he not? He had the sudden urge to get as drunk as he could, then sleep this nightmare away.

"Wanna dance?"

The brunette tried not to glare. America took advantage of his lack of American experience, messed up his hair, played with his clothing, expected him to act frivolous, took him to a filthy, cramped speakeasy, _forced_ him into secrecy, and then _invited him to dance?_ Was this the "American way"? The "American dream"? If he didn't follow the status quo of the young people, he would be considered a Mrs. Grundy?

"No, thank you." Good. He could keep his voice even.

"Y'sure?"

Lithuania nodded. "You can. We . . . we practiced very hard." He swallowed. "We practiced very hard, and if you do not dance, the practice would have—have been pointless."

He almost expected America to tell him that there did not have to be a point. He didn't; the blond simply shrugged and gave him a floppy wave over his shoulder as he turned to go.

Lithuania let out a long, airy sigh, and held his head on his fingers, careful not to smudge the paint. He slapped the table with his other hand. He wanted to curse the speakeasy, curse the people, curse America's childish attitude, and, most of all, curse his own luck. If only he was better with English. Then he could have listened more closely as America explained the slang, and maybe gone to town more. To a library and study. If only he'd declined the invitation when he thought he should.

He downed his mug without so much as a thought until it was empty. Then he gasped, letting air back into his lungs, and wiped his mouth. So he felt a little better. And a little worse. Alcohol was a horrible way out (living with a certain Russian had taught him that). And it only made him warmer. He stood and decided to explore. If he was going to keep a secret, he thought he might as well know what he was keeping.

Not wanting to walk through the deathly room of smoke again, he checked for another way out. Sure enough, there was a dark stairway in the opposite side of the room. It led outside. The cold wind reached down his throat and stole all the air from his lungs. It surprised the Lithuanian so much, he almost fell back down. But after a stumbling step, he righted himself.

There were a few clumps of people huddled by the side of the building, and some others wandering around the lot. The back of the warehouse was mostly overgrown shrubbery, and a dirt path winding planlessly through it. A few trees braved the cold and solitude. The path looped back around a few meters past the farthest tree, and a wooded area started maybe three times that distance from the path. Careless and quiet. The moon was bright and seemed to silence everything its silvery light could reach.

"Hey. There. You."

Lithuania looked down to see a thin, shivering girl walk toward him. She couldn't be more than seventeen. All she was clad in was a short, black dress with a low V-shaped neckline that was probably supposed to be suggestive. The dress ended at her elbows, a shredded look, just like the bottom did, which was jumping around because her knobby knees were nearly knocking into each other.

Seeing she captured his attention, she continued: "Got a ciggy?"

Cigarette? He felt his eyebrows go up. How did America know this would happen? No. He couldn't have. But . . . how had he known where to find him in the room of smoke? It didn't matter. He needed to answer before the silence dragged on too long. "Yes."

"Butt me."

That . . . meant . . . she wanted one? He pulled one out of his pocked and handed it to her end-first.

"Thanks a bunch."

"You are cold?"

"No, 'm so hot it jus' looks like it," she replied flatly.

" . . . Why not go inside?"

"Doors're locked."

Lithuania's eyes widened. Locked? He couldn't go back inside? "Maybe if you, you knock?"

She had a clear, high laugh. "You new here?" she asked in the tone that indicated she already knew the answer.

The Baltic nodded.

"Oh, you poor bunny. Here, let's ankle."

Lithuania's mouth opened, then closed it. She started walking, and he understood. Ankle was walk. Why not feet? People walked on their feet, not their ankles.

"D'you know why i'sso quiet? I'll tell you why. Jus' soon as I remember." She giggled and adjusted her pointy hat. "Y'know what I am? I'ma witch. And you—" She shook a bony elbow at him, stopping for a moment. Lithuania helped her over some shrubs and onto the dirt path. He was rather skeptical as to whether she would struggle in her shoes or not, but she seemed to manage. "Shit. Oops, I mean shoot." She giggled again, holding a hand delicately over her mouth. "I mean I forgot what I was saying. Brr, it's cold out here. My date's inside. Prob'ly won't come lookin' fer a while, though. He's . . . ah . . . whatever." She flapped her hand, waving the thought of the other man away.

The Lithuanian wasn't sure if he should offer his cloak. She was so thin, and every breath they let out turned into fog. It really was quite cold. By the sounds of it, she would be stuck outside a while, too. "D-do—would you like to wear my cloak?" His hand went up to the fastener.

She, evidently, had a different idea, for she lifted a side, and wrapped her arms right around him. "Mmm, you're warm," she murmured to the frozen Lithuanian. She nestled right up to his side. "Now put'cher arms down, the air's cold."

He slowly lowered his left arm, but didn't know what to do with the one she was under. He didn't know here. They had exchanged only a few words. Was it typical for relationships to develop so fast, in America? He didn't even know her name! He _did_ know, that if it wasn't for the face paint and powder, his face would be extremely red.

"Did I scare you?" she asked playfully. She tilted her head up, and he tilted his as far away as he could without it seeming offensive. "Boo." Alcohol was strong on her breath. "Here, I'll help." She pulled his arm down, then arranged the cloak. The continued walking. "Oh, and I like your wig. I'sso . . . realistic." She reached up and twirled his hair, cigarette still between her fingers, unlit.

"I-it is not a wig."

"Oh? Yer hair's longer'n mine?" More giggles. "_I_ think . . . hm . . . You're an Ethel. Hello, Ethel."

"But my name is—"

"Ethel."

"It is—"

"Ethel."

Lithuania frowned, though she didn't seem to notice. "What is your name?"

"Oh . . . it's . . ." She covered her mouth and yawned, resting her head on his shoulder. "A really pretty name. Y'know? My daddy named me . . . so nice. Not some old lady name. Oh, yeah, we have to be quiet. Shhh . . ."

"Why?" he whispered. He looked around; no one was paying attention to anything but themselves. And they were all extremely quiet.

"Mac's off duty. Word got out that he broke 'is leg falling off a ladder. S'too bad. Now a stinkin' fella actin' like a Mulligan's substitutin' fer 'im." She wrinkled her nose in disdain. "Lotta people who go ta this joint don' like those Micks. Turns out, they don' like us, either." She laughed this time, but cut herself off. "Shhh . . ."

They reached the farthest part of the loop in the path, then she stopped.

"You're not from around here."

"I am not."

"Where you from?"

"Ah, Lithuania." His name sounded strange in English.

She snorted. "Where's _that?_"

"Europe?" She would know there that was, right?

"Oh. By England?"

Lithuania shut his eyes. "It is on the, uh, the continent part of Europe. Do you know where Germany is?" He looked down at her to see her eyes were closed. Was she imagining a map?

"Mmm . . . sure."

"There is Germany. If you follow the coast, farther east, is another country, then a little part of Germany, again," Lithuania said, figuring that America would just consider the little part another part of Germany. He re-shut his eyes and imagined, too. "Gilb—Prussia calls it East Prussia. After that, is Lithuania."

"What's the other country?" she asked after a moment.

Lithuania wondered if he pretended not to hear, she would go on to another subject.

"Hey," she mumbled after a moment, nudging him in the ribs. The Lithuanian jumped. "H-are you _ticklish?_" She erupted into a fit of giggles, collapsing into his side.

Lithuania's eyes widened, and felt his face get hot before it even had a chance to completely cool down since she first joined him under his cloak. "N-no—"

"Pff. Liar. You _are_."

"Poland," he said quickly.

"Uh, what?" She lifted her head and blinked.

"Th-the c . . ." His breath hitched. "Country," he whispered. The abrupt change shifted her away from the topic of him just as he wanted, but he instantly wondered if there was a better way. The word had rolled so easily off his tongue, even if in English. It would always be familiar. And he hated that. He hated himself for hating that. It meant that he acknowledged something was wrong. Which meant Poland won.

"Poland? Oh. M'little brother . . . he's studyin' that country in school. For a, uh, report thingy. Wha's it like?"

_Horrible. He's a horrible, selfish, controlling country. With horrible music and horrible weather and horrible people, ideas, buildings, food, clothes, ponie_—Lithuania blinked. No, he wouldn't be biased. That wouldn't make him much different. He was better than that. "I . . . I think that . . . some people would say it is a very nice place, and _others_ . . . would disagree."

"People're like that anyplace, aren' they?" she said after a moment.

The Baltic nodded.

She let go of him, turning so that they were facing each other. "Y'know, you're okay, Ethel." She smiled into his face, tempting him to step back. "Swell fella." She clapped her hands on his shoulders. At first, he thought it was so she could sturdy herself, because she was tipsy from the alcohol. But then the question came: "Cash er check?"

No, not again. Not again! It had been weeks since he learned what that meant, and he hadn't used it since that day! No, he had to stay calm. _Think, think think! What could it be? Bank . . . It can't be check. I said check and Mr. Jon—Alfred started again. That one is . . . then Mr. Kirkland came in, and_ . . . Was he supposed to say cash? "C-c—"

"Cash?" A grin broke out across her face. "A swell fella," she repeated.

Lithuania blinked.

And then she kissed him.

"Toris! Are you off your nuts?"

Why was America there? Lithuania pulled away, gasping. "I-I di—"

"Do you have any idea who that _is?_"

He shook his head, which was clouding up. Fast.

"Hey, mind your potatoes," she said.

America trotted closer and grabbed Lithuania's arm. "Hey, Toris, this isn't good! We gotta blow this joint. _Now_."

The girl planted her hands on America's chest and pushed. He stumbled a little, yanking Lithuania with him. Wait, had he been drinking? "_Dievas_, what going on?" he said at the same time the girl started calling America a long string of names.

America clapped his hand over her mouth. "Look, doll," he hissed. "Mick's in. And you know who he's got?" Her eyes widened, and he nodded. "Yeah, so hop to it, and make sure the mulligan doesn't get the goods on him."

She pulled the hand away. "Where are they?" she queried, suddenly with pristine dictation.

"Over on the right side. Get a wiggle on!"

She nodded and started down the path.

America pulled the Lithuanian the opposite way, running at full speed. He leaped over the shrubbery at the final stretch of the patch. Lithuania stumbled through, nearly tripping. He skittered across the ground, unable to get his footing, and America didn't so much as slow until they reached his vehicle.

"Mister Alfred . . . what . . . is happening?" he gasped. His heart was pounding rapidly, and he didn't know if it was from the kiss or the run. Either way, adrenaline made him hyper-aware that something was definitely wrong.

America simply opened his door and helped him in before getting in on the driver's side.

"A-Alfred?" he asked when they were on the road.

There was someone in front of them, turning up clouds of dust. America seemed to be concentrating on trying to pass them.

Lithuania supposed he hadn't been heard. He didn't try again. He was too busy hoping an official wouldn't see them speeding along after they were free. When they reached the city, America finally slowed down and let out a low whistle.

"Well _that_ was a close one."

"What do you mean?"

"Two fellas left a little before we did, and one of them got caught by the mulligan. He was bent. Er, splifficated," he corrected, using a word Lithuania knew. "Anyway, the second one came all the way back and gave the warning. That Mick is as prude and killjoy as a Mrs. Grundy gets. If we'da stayed, getting pinched would be _inevitable_."

"Oh . . . but if the, um, mulligan was not at the speakeasy yet when we left, why did you tell . . ." He realized he never was told her name.

America knew what he was talking about, of course. "She didn't tell you? Her father's an egg and her daddy is Mitchie. And if the cops were on their way, he sure as hell would've been out there in a flash, if he knew that's where she was. Toris, you are one lucky fella. Still, you shouldn't pick on dames that are taken." He raised an eyebrow and peered at the Baltic over his glasses.

Lithuania's face reddened. "I-I did not intend for that to happen."

America laughed. "I figured that much."

"H-how do you mean?"

The car rolled to a stop as a crowed crossed the street. "Toris, you seem like the type of guy that would put coat over a puddle for a dame—however long ago people still did that. Not the kinda fellow who'd neck her at a speakeasy."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment," America said happily.

"I understand. Thank you for seeing me as that-that type of person."

"Oh. Well, no problem." America hummed the rest of the way home.

_No, to_ his _house,_ Lithuania told himself absently. The Baltic's home was still waiting for his return.

"A-Alfred?"

"Hm?"

"If . . . if Mitchie is known to murder people, why would he listen to the, um, mulligan?"

The blond chuckled. "He's an odd bird, I'll tell you _that_ much. Y'see, he's fine with breaking the law as long as he doesn't get caught. But if the cops do nag him, he's not much more than a child afraid of getting' the paddle."

". . . Paddle?" They hopped out of the car and continued in hushed tones until they reached inside.

"You know . . . like, if a kid is bad, then they have to grab their ankles and—_whap!_" America swung his hand through the air. He raised an eyebrow at Lithuania's horrified expression, then opened the door. "Personally, I don't think hitting a child get's anything done besides making it bruised and scared of its own shadow. But to each his own, I guess." He shrugged.

They walked into the house, and the warm air made Lithuania's nose sting. America went around turning on lights. Suddenly, he brightened. "Hey! Want some hot chocolate?"

"Yes, please."

"You can't just go to bed, this time. You actually have'ta drink it," he warned, wagging his finger.

Lithuania smiled. "I will."

"Hey."

"Yes?"

"Toris, are you still mad at me?"

He sighed, brows furrowing. He had nearly forgotten; it felt like walking through the rooms in the speakeasy happened a lifetime ago. But his hair still had green in it, and it would probably take a long shower and very much soap to wash it out. "Yes. Though . . . I do not think I will be in the morning."

America nodded slowly. "Okay. Extra chocolate for you," he decided.

* * *

**AN;; Um. I think I'm gonna edit some stuff later. And I want to reply to all of my reviews :3**

**But right now, I'm tired and it's late.**

**And I just wanted to say that I just realized that I was saying it wrong. It should be phrases, not words.**

**Aaaand I think I already mentioned that, but am not gonna check.**

**Anyway, _"Ne! Nr mąstymas!_" means "No! No thinking!" in Lithuanian. Or so Google says. .c.**

**But bringing that up, I forgot what I was going to say~~~**

**What is this, it's, like, six-thousand-something words? Without this part, of course. I . . . think. Otherwise it's seven.  
**

**;o;"**

**Goodnight.**


	7. Preparations

November left each country thankful that night visited sooner each day.

America started lingering at work longer and longer until one evening he called to tell Lithuania to make dinner without him. They both knew that was crossing the line, and without a word said on the subject, he made sure to come home in time to eat. Actually, not much was said on any subject. America fell into the habit of waking up late and falling asleep early, leaving little time for idle chat.

Lithuania hadn't the time to mind, either. America had been right about October's cold snap but winter was approaching, and he had to take advantage of the warmer weather for the few weeks it lasted. The leaves' vibrant colors drained, and soon covered the ground instead of clothing the trees. He spent much of the day raking America's yard. And when his trees were finally bare, he raked the neighbors' leaves that blew in.

Time he spent not raking was time spent cleaning. The house was constantly cooled by the chilly breeze, then stayed cool, because the sun didn't reach inside. Lithuania didn't mind, though, since he was constantly moving. The upper floors were all swept and scrubbed, as well as the stairs. Rugs were pounded, walls washed, winter clothes and summer clothes cleaned, the latter slowly being stored away.

A little after the middle of the month, he was finished with the downstairs and organizing the food stored in the cellar. He did not know how winter would turn out, therefore uncertain how high to stock the shelves.

He generally stayed out of the rooms not on the first floor, still feeling more like a guest, though America repeatedly told him, in so many words, it was fine to leave evidence of his presence. Lithuania thought his room was evidence, but America apparently meant other than that.

He, too, went to bed early, but always somehow managed to wake up at his usual, early hour. Which was all the more reason he screamed and fell out of bed when there was a squeaky, jolting flop next to him.

Lithuania struggled to breathe. The ringing in his ears made them ache, and his eyes wouldn't focus as his blood pressure dangerously shot up and down. He swayed a little, shook his head—the exactly _wrong_ thing to do—and winced before meeting eyes with America. The blond was like a statue with a stunned look forever sculpted into his face.

Or so it seemed, until he started laughing. "Jeepers Creepers! You scared me, pal."

_He_ scared _America_? Lithuania felt his jaw slacken. And his tailbone throb; it, and his rug-burned hands had cushioned his fall.

America hopped off the bed and offered a hand, then yanked Lithuania to his feet. The Baltic had to lock his knees to keep from falling forward, which only added to his list of pains.

"I-is there something wrong?" he asked, resisting the urge to cradle his pounding head.

"Well, I was just wondering what you wanted for breakfast," America said, sitting on the bed and bouncing.

"You—I will make it. You have work; you must ready yourself. What would you—"

"Turkey Day's Thursday. No work!"

Lithuania blinked. "W-wh—?"

"Thanksgiving. I don't have work today. Not until next Monday."

His mouth formed a little 'O' as he processed this.

America laughed again. "You know what, buddy? How about you get s'more sleep. Tired doesn't suit you well." The blond folded the blankets down, pulled Lithuania to the bed, and tucked them under his chin before patting his head. He spun on one heal, lunged toward the door, swung his arms, clicked his heals, and was out the door.

Lithuania sat up. _He clicked his heals_?

He couldn't go back to sleep. Not now, anyway. A hand found its way to his chest, resting over his heart. At least his pulse was calmer. Lithuania settled back down, suddenly exhausted. Maybe a little more sleep wouldn't be as impossible as it seemed.

But what about America? How was it he could be awake so early? _He_ ought to be the one sleeping in. Lithuania glanced at the bedside clock. Then sat up again. It was already a quarter past nine! America _had_ slept in, and so had he!

The Baltic hurried into fresh clothes and flew to the kitchen. The door was kept open with a chair stacked with newspapers that America recently decided was necessary (why, Lithuania could not guess, but it was America's house, so of course he could do as he wished). The country was belting out the lyrics to a song he undoubtedly was not familiar with. He quickly began making up his own words, improvising a song about frying eggs. He caught sight of the Lithuanian and added him into the song, also asking him why he wasn't sleeping.

Lithuania didn't know if he was supposed to answer back in song, but the blond went on about the squirrel with fat cheeks climbing up the tree in front of the kitchen window. The Baltic smiled to himself at the silly fun and took two plates from the cupboard.

After breakfast, America left to search for a turkey, and Lithuania continued with his cleaning. It was late when they were both finished, and once again, they went to bed without so much as a decent conversation after dinner.

Even so, Lithuania found he couldn't sleep. Was it because he slept in? Maybe it was the weather. It was changing, again, and whenever he went outside, he could see his breath. Whatever was the cause, he spent a good deal of the night tossing and turning. Finally, he got out of bed and found himself by the window, peering out with the curtains tied back.

The sky was clear, moon bright, and when he touched his hand to the glass, it was outlined with fog. He would have to clean his hand print away in the morning. And rake up the leaves scuttling across the dry grass. The Baltic sighed. That was to think about in the morning.

Under a streetlight, a reflective flash caught his attention, and he spotted someone over there. Just walking by. He wondered if they could see him, and backed away to his bed. He sat down, then rested his head on the pillow. They had one day until Thanksgiving. Weren't America's brothers coming? Lithuania finally drifted to sleep thinking about which guest rooms to prepare.

Morning came, though he didn't notice until the sun tried penetrating his eyelids. Lithuania grimaced and stretched. He sat up, leaning back on his arms. Oh. He forgot to untie the curtains.

With such a quiet start to the day, he wondered if America was awake. He opened his closet only to remember he left the laundry basket by the back door. Which had his shirts and robe in it. He would look silly with a nightshirt, tie, and trousers, so he kept his pajamas on.

As usual, the kitchen door was open. The blond was balancing a chair on its hind legs, his propped up and crossed on the table. A pencil was resting on top of his glasses and he was throwing little balls of paper behind him, most likely aiming for the sink. America was also in his pajamas, though Lithuania was sure his laundry was done.

"Morning."

Lithuania rubbed an eye, realized what he was doing, and dropped his hand. "Labas ryt—" He cut himself off and blinked. English. "Good morning."

"Birds are gone."

He nodded.

"Really quiet, isn't it?"

Another nod.

A loud knock on the door cut through the air, making Lithuania jump and America's chair slip. He somehow managed to roll out of it and land on his stomach, saving his head. They stared at each other for a moment. A pound on the door, followed by someone stomping around the porch. A yelp followed by quick feet, hurried pounding, and someone jiggling the locked doorknob.

America stood, smoothed his pajamas, and bounced out of the room. Lithuania rushed to pick the pencil and wads of paper off the floor. He tidied the kitchen as much as he could, even straightening the stack of newspapers on the chair by the door.

In the other room, America laughed. A not-so-happy reply followed. It sounded like the nice Englishman. There was someone else. No, two someone elses. His face reddened. What about the guest rooms? They weren't prepared! He thought about sneaking upstairs to fix them, but America called him in.

"Y-yes?" he asked, approaching. Ah! He was still in his pajamas, too!

He was met by the Englishman, a blond man with stubble he remembered was France, and a younger blond who looked very much like America and introduced himself as Canada.

"Mattie, Artie, and the uninvited Francis."

"As usual," Canada added with a small smile. "Oh, u—"

"Wine bastard."

"At least I can cook!" the Frenchman chirped.

"Are you questioning my ability?"

France gasped. "Of course not!" England was about to say something snide, but France interjected: "You would have to _have_ ability to be able to question it."

"Why, you—!"

America laughed loudly, drowning everything out. "_Oooo_-kay. Just drop your stuff here. Get comfortable. Don't break anything. In twenty minutes we're out the door."

The Englishman grumbled a little, but headed toward the living room. France followed with a chuckle.

"Alfr—"

"And I mean it about not breaking anything! If you're going to horse around, take it to the driveway."

"Um, Alfred . . ."

"Oh, Mattie? Yeah, what is it?"

"I had to leave Kumajeena at home."

"No problem."

". . . So I'll have to leave early Friday morning."

"If you gotta . . .i'somebody taking care of the little guy?"

Canada nodded. He glanced at Lithuania, whose eyes widened and face turned red. If only he'd dressed before going in the kitchen after he woke up! The blond smiled. It was a gentle smile, and Lithuania got the notion that nearly everything about this country would be gentle. He managed to smile back. There was a shout, then a crash in the living room.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" America flung his arms in the air and marched toward the living room.

"It was nothing, Amérique! Ah, do not worry!"

"Bushwa! You broke my . . ."

"I'm Matthew."

"Toris."

"It's nice to meet you, Toris."

"It is nice to meet you, too."

The conversation halted. Lithuania wasn't sure what he was supposed to say, and the commotion in the other room was very distracting.

"So, how's your stay been?"

"Very unforgettable. A-and pleasant." Canada's smile widened, though Lithuania felt his own waver.

"Alfred can really be a ball of energy, can't he?"

"W-wh . . .pardon?"

"Well, you look tired, so I thought . . ."

Lithuania tilted his head, understanding. "Oh. Yes, he can. We have both had a lot to do this month . . . Mi-Alfred said it was because of the holiday."

Canada nodded. "I see. At least it's not Christmas season, right?"

Lithuania smiled, though he wasn't sure what the quiet blond meant.

America came barreling through, slapping the door open. "Okay. Shopping. Now."

The Baltic paled. It was obvious America was aggravated. "A-ah, Alfred."

"Hm?" The blond pressed his lips into a straight line and raised his eyebrows at Lithuania.

"Y-y-you are w-wearing p-p-p- . . . p—" Lithuania bit his lip to stop the stammering.

America looked down. "Oh." He laughed a loud, tense laugh, then crossed back in front of him and the Canadian, going toward the stairs.

"It was nice talking," Canada said, offering another smile.

Lithuania nodded.

France sauntered past them. "Come, Matthieu. We are in charge of desserts!"

"Eh, well, bye."

"Bye," Lithuania said with a wave as the two countries exited. They took off at a brisk pace. He shut the door to keep in the heat, and stood for a moment longer.

England was silently meandering, arms crossed, lips pursed.

The house quiet once more, though it had definitely lost it's calm; Lithuania couldn't miss America calling him from his room.

Lithuania knocked, in spite of the door being slightly ajar.

America brusquely pulled it open, making a draft. He pulled the Baltic in before latching it.

Lithuania broke his grip and took a step back. He was very wary for any anger that could possibly be directed toward him.

"Okay, so here's the plan: Matt and Francis left to get all the groceries, and when I get downstairs, I'm gonna lead Artie on a wild goose chase for a turkey."

"But . . . you bought a turkey yesterday."

"Ahaha." America wagged a finger. "_He_ doesn't know that."

Lithuania nodded, piecing it together.

"We won't be back til late. Matt and Francis will start cooking right away, so don't worry about them. Oh, and stay out of the kitchen. Tomorrow you'll have to make sure Artie doesn't get in there, either."

"So Francis isn't an uninvited guest?"

"Nope. Was all planned."

"I have to entertain all day . . . what about the meals?"

"We'll have them in the dining room."

He nodded. "I understand. I will do my best."

A slow grin spread across America's face. "Good."

* * *

**AN;;;**

**Short chapter~**

**I didn't really want to include this with Thanksgiving.**

**Probably because my mind is, like, mush.**

**Seriously, it reach nearly a hundred outside, and our AC is broken. So it was, like, ninety inside for the majority of the day.**

**I have a new love for ice.**

**No idea what a regular autumn is like. I live where there's a foot of snow before the leaves have a chance to even _think_ about falling of the trees.**

**And before that, I lived in a place where everything was so mild and nice, winter hardly was below forty, and summer usually stayed below eighty. Except in August. **

**So...**

**I donno. I think I gave up on replying to reviews. Well, actually no. **

**Ahhhhh the truth is, I don't remember if I replied to any or not, so don't know what to reply to. Memory fail.**

**My parents are competing in what we call The Race to Dementia, and sadly, I feel like I'm winning. This is so not good. I can't even legally drive yet! D :**

**Yes. Canada can't remember his polar bear's name. **

**There was another (not-so-)clever thing I added, but I forgot what it was.**


	8. Thanksgiving

Keeping the Englishman busy wasn't difficult the night before. Just as America said, France and Canada came back with nearly too many groceries to hold, and went straight to the kitchen. Lithuania broke one of America's rules though, and was called into the kitchen.

The blonds faced a predicament. The blue-eyed Frenchman insisted that neither of them could light America's tentative oven. Their hair! It was French and beautiful, and could not be risked under any circumstances. Of course Lithuania had to be the one to do it. Yes, he had nice hair, too, but he knew the ways of the American's oven, and, therefore, knew how to not be scorched. It was the only way. Or so the Frenchman insisted. Canada offered to light it, but when France finally heard, he declared the idea appalling.

The Baltic calmly listened to France explain all this, then proceeded to light the oven and put any further explanation to rest. He figured hair was France's ostensible concern, and as America would say, he'd had an "earful".

Other than that, he followed America's plan. When he and the Englishman returned, they burst through the door in a heated argument.

Canada and France, busy in the kitchen, with its door now closed, didn't bother to see what the commotion was. Lithuania, organizing the stack of newspapers in the chair that was nonchalantly set in the middle of the living room, turned his head. Not that he could see through walls.

Their voices almost instantly quieted, as if adjusting to the settings. Lithuania strained to hear, then realized he was eavesdropping, which, as his face warmed, was followed by the thought that red seemed to be a constant color on his face.

"You know what? It's silly! Forget it!" America hissed.

"H-wh-and just _how_ do you expect me to do that?"

"I don't care; bang your head against the wall? Get bent? Hopped up? How do you _usually_ forget about things?" Something dropped and there was a creak. Lithuania guessed America was sitting on the chest by the door.

Everything was quiet for a moment, then England said: "I don't."

America sighed, though it sounded more like a long huff. "Of course you don't."

"What's that supposed to mean? And you do—?"

"What do you think? At least I _try_ to!"

"And that's supposed to make me feel better, you git?"

"Did I ever _say_ I was trying to-to _console_ you?"

"Well it seems it's a good thing I don't need consoling!"

"Bullshit."

Silence.

Lithuania squeezed his eyes shut. He knew he really shouldn't have been listening, but with there raised voices, it was impossible to shut out. And he was trapped. He would have to cross the hallway, and ultimately, their line of vision, to get to any other room in the house. He was afraid to breathe, let alone finish arranging the papers. What would happen if they heard him?

"What did you just . . . ?" the Englishman slowly asked, voice wavering.

"Bull. Shit."

"How dare you speak to me li—"

"S'my house, Artie! I'll speak however I want, be it like a bell-bottom or _the king,_" America said, donning an exaggerated English accent at the mention of the monarchy.

"T-to insult me is one thing! But to insult His Majesty! Why-why that's tr—"

"Treason? Maybe t'you, but I'm a free man."

There was pacing, and since America was sitting, it had to be England. Lithuania slowly, _slowly_ rose to his feet and crept to the wall so as not to be seen if the Englishman passed by.

"And close the damn door. Just because I got a few clams saved up doesn't mean I wanna spend 'em all on heating my house."

Lithuania glanced over to the fireplace, picturing the stacks of wood in the cellar. The supply _was_ running low. For some reason, America like his house very warm. And the cleaning was close to done, so Lithuania would have to—

An ear-breaking slam made him flinch. His head bumped the wall and he froze. England flew by, not bothering to be quiet as he ascended the stairs. He heard another creak as America stood, and footsteps as he took his turn to pace. Lithuania chanced a peek around the corner. A brow-knitted America with his hands on his waist entered the Baltic's line of vision. The blond looked up, and Lithuania jumped; the motion instantly attracted his eyes. Spotted!

America flashed a quick grin and started over, studying the floor. Lithuania wasn't sure if he should run or try to start conversation or . . . Lithuania turned, but America caught his shoulder.

"My advice?" he said quietly into the Baltic's ear, "Don't ever tell him what you _really_ think of his cooking."

Lithuania blinked. The blond laughed; a devious twinkle lighting his eyes. He patted Lithuania's shoulder, then left to check on the others.

"Francis, _vous pervers!_" drifted the voice of a distressed Canadian. "Oh, and pass me the sugar?"

The door swung a little before it settled, deforming the Frenchman's chuckle.

England stayed in his room the rest of the night, and the three in the kitchen supposedly forgot about dinner, so Lithuania spent the rest of the night in his own room.

He thought about writing letters, but noted that he didn't really have anyone to write to. Latvia and Estonia were probably busy. He hadn't talked to them much since they followed suit in gaining independence, anyway. What would they talk about? How great it was to be free of Russia? They had already had that conversation. For a few minutes. Until reality hit. Lithuania frowned and settled on the edge of his bed. Truthfully, he didn't even contribute much to that conversation. He'd had his moment, and it was gone by the time the other two had theirs.

He could write to his government, but what was the point? If there were problems, he would have to leave to be able to do anything very affective. An ocean was a large obstacle. And if he left, he wouldn't be helping his economy any.

There was . . .

Belarus? Much too soon. It would definitely be awkward, after being married.

As hard as he wracked his brain, he came up blank on people; he needed friends, and that was a rather depressing thought he had never had before.

Lithuania decided to go to sleep, instead.

He woke up dark and early the next morning. At first, he thought he awoke _too_ early, but when he checked the clock, it read a little past six. The sun wouldn't rise until at least an hour.

While he was alone the day before, he was able to prepare the guest rooms, as well as put away the laundry, which he was very thankful of as he dressed for the day. He wondered if America was that adept at planning, or if it all had been merely a large coincidence.

In the kitchen, he got himself a glass of water. A heavy-lidded France shuffled in, still in his robe and slippers.

"Lituanie," he greeted, bringing a hand down his face. It stopped at his stubble, where he rubbed his chin slightly.

"Prancūzija," Lithuania greeted back.

France winced. "En anglais, please." He lowered himself into a chair as he covered a yawn.

Lithuania's mouth twitched. Of course the great country of France would find the Baltic's language inferior.

"You are not supposed to be here," the great country of France pointed out in a singsong voice. "But do not fret, Lituanie, Big Brother France is good at keeping secrets."

Lithuania felt his face heat up. He completely forgot! France propped his head on a palm and chuckled at the brunette's expression. "How about some coffee, hm? Or wine? Does Amérique have wine? The . . . drinking age here . . ."

Blackmail. In a mild sense. But what was he to expect? Not even a year had passed. Lithuania was a little surprised America hadn't brought the subject up in the months he'd been there. Though he couldn't remember actually _seeing_ the country when the decision was made. He remembered France, though. And England. And how France was against it.

"Vilnius was not enough." Lithuania couldn't wipe the frown from his face.

The Frenchman thought for a moment. "Mm, no. No, it was _more_ enough. You are a country that walks around with a heart given to someone you do not like."

"I did not give it." His accusatory eyes locked with blue.

"Oh, I do not deserve _all_ of the blame. Do you dislike me that much simply because I am friendly with la Pologne?"

Lithuania shook his head. "No."

"Envy, then?" France was now sitting straight, chin delicately resting on the tips of his fingers, smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

There was a sneeze, then Canada entered. He scratched his head and avoided eye contact, making it rather discernible he had been listening.

"Bonjour," France said amiably.

"Bon—"

"_Haaaaaa-_ppy Thanksgiving!" America bellowed as he entered, arms wide. He spun in a circle and grinned. And he obviously _hadn't_ been listening. He saw Lithuania, wavered, then looked around. A cursory search with his eyes told him everything not meant to be seen was hidden, so he widened his grin even more.

Lithuania volunteered a small smile back. He was mostly smiling on the inside, glad for this small victory against France. Then he noticed how petty that was.

"Any coffee?"

"I will make some," he said.

England trudged in, blinked at the crowd, then lifted a wrist to check his watch. Seeing it wasn't there, he fiddled with his cuff's button. So as not to look silly? Lithuania knew he was the only one paying him any attention; did the Englishman think otherwise? He conjectured that it was possibly habit.

". . . Has any tea been—"

"Not yet, but Toris is on it," America said, taking the coffee ingredients from the Lithuanian.

After everyone was full of tea, or coffee, or both, Lithuania and England were abruptly banned from the kitchen. After the conversation the day before, Lithuania guessed America had given up on being subtle in the plan to keep the Englishman out.

The two stood for a moment outside the door. England muttered something along the lines of it being too cold, remembered the previous conversation with America, frowned, then told Lithuania he was going to take a shower, since the bloody bathtub drain was missing, and that he was sorry he couldn't be proper company at the moment.

The Baltic was selfishly looking forward to entertaining England as means of salvaging his soured morning. With that hope dashed, he ambled into the living room, and sat on the floor next to the stack of newspapers that hadn't been moved. He raised a hand and took a look around. Which was unnecessary. Lithuania squeezed his eyes shut. Habit. Rifling through the papers from where he sat was difficult, so he transferred the stack to the ground in front of him.

Starting from the a little before the top was a paper that had a photograph of a girl on the front. He skimmed through, finding out she was Miss America. _Miss_ America? Lithuania knew America's borders went from ocean to ocean, but . . . there were two? His brow furrowed and he quickly grabbed from the bottom.

Bhagat Singh Thind. Lithuania wasn't sure what language that was, but he guessed it was a name. There was a picture of a ship on the next, and then an interview with someone who had started a magazine. The fourth paper from the bottom wasn't very eye-catching. He read over the article. Theory of Evolution? He noticed there were dates in the corner.

A Yankee Stadium opened in April. Was Yankee a new sport? No . . . it had something to do with baseball. Southeastern Michigan received six inches of snow in May. Did it really snow that long in America? Michigan was somewhere west. Maybe it was just colder, there. Another one in May about the Klu Klux Klan. There was a picture of people with pointed hoods on their heads. Lithuania wondered if they believed _they_ had the Holy Grail, like Spain thought _he_ did.

He flipped through some more. There were many copies of September issues, coming from all over the country. There was news about ships. In California and New Jersey. No, in California they were destroyers. More news about California; pictures of roaring fires covered the front pages. The next newspaper was toward the end of September, notifying that the newspaper printers' strike ended.

He heard footsteps on the stairs. A dressed France was playing with his shirt buttons, walking slowly back to the kitchen. He glanced over, and seeing he had Lithuania's attention, broke out into a sly smile. "Bonjour," he said in his friendly voice.

Lithuania went back to looking through the papers. A frown hung heavy before he could stop it. To his dismay, France sauntered in and sat on the kitchen chair. He picked up a paper, presumably to read it. He made a guttural sound and crossed his legs.

Before he realized what he was doing, Lithuania looked up.

"Amérique had quite a September."

Lithuania nodded slightly, turning his head a little.

"Quite a fire. I wonder if anyone was injured." There was silence for a minute as France read. "Hm. Amérique has very . . . _heroic_ young people." France laughed.

"You bet I do!" America said, entering the room. Canada was right behind him. "Oh, lookin' through the paper? Whaddo you think? Pretty exciting, huh?" He grinned.

There was silence. Lithuania flinched when it occurred to him that _he_ had to answer. What was he supposed to say to that? "I-it was . . . very different than my year," the Baltic replied, careful to not look at France. No, that was the wrong thing to say! "Yes, exciting." He tried to smile.

America picked up a paper. It was the one with the strange name on it. He made a face, then dropped it. "Different. That's swell! So, what were _you_ doing in February?"

Lithuania had tried not to remember. He didn't want to forget, but he didn't want to remember. And then America had to ask him that. "I was busy," he said quickly. In his concentration with not looking at America, his eyes met France's. _Dievas_.

"Honhon, busy? How vague, Lituanie! Just tell us what you were doing—let's say . . . around the middle of the month? Oui?"

Lithuania didn't blink. He didn't look away. "I celebrated my birthday. On the sixteenth. It was small, since that month was busy."

France's eyes changed when the date clicked. His face lost its confident look. "Oh?"

"Aw, well. Happy belated birthday," America offered. "Hey, but now that I know, I can through you a surprise party for next year."

"It is not much of a surprise party if you tell him," France said with a snort. He stood.

America shrugged. "Just a party, then."

"Ah! Do you not see the value of secrecy?"

The blond flapped a hand. "I'm young. I don't _need_ to know the value of secrecy."

France clucked, not amused. "At least you know how to cook," he said in a voice that indicated he was lowering his expectations of the nation.

"That puts my food higher than Artie's?"

"I did not say it tastes good."

"Hey, of course it tastes good! Otherwise you wouldn't be such a crasher all the time," America pointed out.

France tipped his head back and laughed. "Touche. Come, come. Let us finish so we can eat _tonight_." He walked out of the room.

America trailed a little behind. "You know, it's normal when people here say it. But hearing a Frenchman say touche?"

There was another laugh that was cut off by the kitchen door closing.

Lithuania sighed and cradled his head in his hands.

"I take it something bad happened?"

The Baltic flinched and straightened. With all that was going on, he had forgotten the Canadian, who was now seated on the couch against the wall facing him.

"In February, I mean."

Lithuania felt a sad smile. His mouth tasted almost bitter and he was afraid that if he spoke, his words would be. So, he nodded.

"And . . . it has to do with love? Ah—no, your _capital_."

He froze, no longer smiling. _The Canadian was the one eavesdropping,_ he recalled.

Canada's face reddened at his slip. If he thought he got away with it earlier, he knew that now, he definitely made himself known. "S-sorry, I didn't mean to. I just . . . I heard you two talking, and didn't want to interrupts, so—I was going to walk away! But . . . then . . . I sneezed."

Lithuania understood. "What happened to my capital is not a secret matter," he said after a deep breath.

Canada's eyebrows raised. "What _did_ happen?"

Lithuania opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. ". . . I suppose spite happened."

America jumped into view. "Hey, Mattie, whatcha doing sitting there? We need you! Wouldn't it be nice to eat _before_ you leave?"

Canada's eyes were focused on Lithuania, but the Baltic knew that he wasn't what they were looking at. With a second call from his brother, he blinked. "Coming."

Alone again, Lithuania re-stacked the papers and placed them back in the chair. Over by the bookshelf, he hesitantly selected a book to read. A little later, England joined him, his own novel in hand. There was a nodded greeting shared, and then both countries settled to the ticking of the clock.

Suddenly, someone was shaking him. But a quick look outside the window said it wasn't sudden at all. Lithuania squeezed his eyes shut and tensed, because there wasn't room to stretch; all four blonds were around him.

"Good evening," America greeted amicably.

"Good . . ." Lithuania cleared his throat. "How long . . .?"

"It's about six," Canada told him.

The Baltic sat up, book dropping to the floor. "Is it time to eat? I'm sorry to keep you waiting, I-I didn't—it wasn't my intention to—"

"Hey, no problem. There's still an hour."

"Oh." He sank back into the couch cushions, then straightened again. "Do you need help?"

"No . . ."

He bounced between gazes, all focused on him. Goosebumps crawled up his neck at the unnerving feeling. "Is . . . is something wrong?"

"No."

Lithuania furrowed his brow. If there wasn't an emergency, it wasn't time to eat, and they didn't need help, why were they all there? If England somehow got into the kitchen, then it would seem America would be less . . . cheerful. It was almost irritating how he wouldn't just tell him. But Lithuania would keep his temper. America liked guessing games. Games . . .

"Am I in the way? Do you need the couch to play a game?"

America's eyebrows shot up. "No, but now that you mention it—who wants to make a fort?"

England rolled his eyes and France looked up at the ceiling, but Canada thought it was a good idea.

"How 'bout it?" he asked Lithuania.

"I will try."

"Whoopee! Majority rules—Artie, can you go get the sheets from the linen closet? Francis, you're in charge of getting weights. Mattie? You get the chairs from the kitchen." America rubbed his hands together. "And _you_, Toris, can help me arrange the furniture."

For a good fifteen minutes, the five countries pushed, pulled, tossed, flattened, weighted, scooted and touched up until their fort was stable, and they could all sit cross-legged inside. America had music playing and a deck of cards, which France was busy shuffling.

"Ah, Mi—Alfred?" Lithuania asked as he cut the deck.

"Yeah, what is it, buddy?"

"What about the food? It will not burn?"

"Oh, we sorta finished early, so now we're just waiting for the turkey."

"Nothing will spoil?"

"Naw, everything's fine."

Canada started humming to the music and America joined in with the lyrics. It made it obvioius that the three Europeans were not familiar with the song. Lithuania recognized it a little, but not enough to sing along.

They started with Slapjack, because nearly everyone basically knew how to play, and the rules were simple. Lithuania was not quite sure how, but he soon caught on.

France was the first to lose all of his cards. England had a smug grin plastered on his face, since he was the one to slap the jack causing the loss. France leaned back against the couch. "It will not be so funny when you lose all of your cards, too."

"Then I will just have to keep them."

"Best wishes, Angleterre. Hopefully your card-playing is better than your cooking."

"Okay, if Artie wins, he gets to go in the kitchen and make some tea to go with dinner," America declared, cutting off England's retort.

"If only I had payed more attention to the game. It would be too bad if my getting out is the reason we die from that poison."

"Poison? I can make a better cup of tea than you _any_ day," England insisted the same time Canada said, "Don't worry, you still have a chance to get back in."

Lithuania just so happened to be the one to provide that chance. He flipped his card over onto the pile in the middle, but like lightning, America's hand got there first.

France sighed. "I need to check on the turkey, anyway." He crawled out of the entrance.

America chuckled and put down and eight.

About half an hour later, they all crawled out, England laughing and America frowning.

"Guess who still finds it funny," the Englishman said, arms crossed and leaning against the wall by the kitchen, to the Frenchman.

France pursed his lips. "Well, pardon my French when I say: _vas te faire encule._"

Canada's eyes widened. England snorted. "Just let me by, Frog. I have _poison_ to make."

Lithuania still wasn't allowed in the kitchen, but he had the company of Canada and America; the latter blond deciding they had to show off their dancing. There wasn't much room in the hallway, but with the living room occupied by sheets, blankets, and all of the kitchen chairs, it was the ideal place. America hopped through the obstacle course to change the song, and Lithuania blanched when he recognized it.

"Mi—Alfred . . ."

". . . The Charleston?" Canada asked. "There's no way. Not in _this_ hall."

"Okay, okay. So we won't dance. But I think we should have a contest."

"Contest?"

"Yep! Take off your shoes, both of you."

Just then, France swung open the door to the kitchen. "To the dining room! _Dinner_ is done," he announced before disappearing again.

For some reason, Lithuania felt nervous. His stomach knotted and his heart beat faster. It was time. He didn't know why America kept it all a secret from him, and he hadn't really been curious. But now, it was as if his mind flipped.

He and Canada followed America to the dining room. The music trailed behind and Lithuania was vaguely aware of a new song starting. He hadn't been in the dining room often, since America preferred eating in the kitchen. The dining room had a stuffy feel to it, even though the ceiling was higher, and it was the largest room in the house. The table was bigger, chairs had higher backs, and there was a simple chaneliere dangling above the table's center.

America led them to the farther end of the table, had Lithuania left of the head and Canada on the right. Then he returned to the kitchen.

The Baltic shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The table was already set; the wood underneath polished and glowing a warm brown. Lithuania could see his hand's reflection as he moved, straightened, then moved his fork. France burst through the doors and he quickly set his fork down again. The Frenchman had a bottle in hand. Lithuania's eyes widened.

"Wine?" Canada asked quietly in disbelief. "What about Alfred's prohibition—"

"I have never heard of anything so silly! If I was able to bring this—" he waved the bottle "—then it must not be serious, oui?"

"What . . . about the pilgrims?"

France frowned. "What _about_ the pilgrims, Matthieu?" he asked flatly.

"Th-they probably didn't have wine, so we shouldn't drink it, either."

The older blond rolled his eyes. "This is _Amérique_ you are talking about."

"So?"

France sat the bottle on the end of the table, clearly thinking. "So what about his Independence day? Should he go back to having only thirteen states because he didn't have forty-eight back then?"

Canada deflated. ". . . No."

France smiled. "Then wine we shall have."

"I say we shall not!" England declared, stepping into the room. He came up to the Frenchman and reached for the bottle. "No one wants to see you drunk, Frog."

France grinned and held it above his head. Even though he and England were the same height, the Englishman refused to get close enough to reach it. France laughed. "What you really mean is that you don't want anyone to see _you_ drunk, oui?"

England's mouth fell open. "You—Bastard!" He reached for the bottle, but France swung around.

Right as America entered the room.

The bottle nailed him in the back of the head; the top half of his body bent forward with shock and the impact, and he hit the table with a slap. The bottle, however, slipped out of the Frenchman's grasp, flew into the chandelier, and dropped in the space between Canada and Lithuania, glass shattering. Lithuania did not watch that part of the spectacle, for he knew what was coming next, so closed his eyes and whipped his head to the side for safety.

Upon blinking cautiously, he saw Canada had done a similar thing, that France was frozen with an arm extended out over the table, and England's mouth was still hanging open, but this time from surprise instead of angry disbelief. America was somewhere on the floor, one arm slipping off the table.

"Mi—Alfred, are you all right?"

There was a groan, and the other arm fell.

France looked down, his face reddened, and he slowly brought his own arm back to his body.

England disappeared, kneeling beside the American.

"Who brought the wine?" came a weary voice.

"Moi," France answered after a moment. He, Lithuania, and Canada exchanged uneasy glances.

America found his feet and England rose next to him, looking ready to spring if the American lost his balance. But the American rolled his shoulders and walked back to the door. "Looks like we're eating in the kitchen," he noted as he left.

Everyone stood, rather bewildered, for a moment. Then Lithuania stood. "I-I think I will change into something fresh." He didn't need to gesture to his stained shirt for the others to understand. Canada mumbled something along the lines of the same thing, and they both exited. On his way to his room, Lithuania heard America rummaging through the icebox.

Ten solid minutes later, everyone was seated around the kitchen table. Canada and Lithuania were in clean clothes, and America had a band-aid on his forehead. His glasses were crooked, but no one dared to comment. The wine was sopped up by old rages and it was decided that England and France were to clean up the glass after dinner, and even though they refused to get along, the two would do it. America was in charge of his house.

"Okay. Anything else? No more wine bottles or arguments?"

Everyone shook their heads.

America grinned. "Good. Because I'm hungry." And even though he said that, nobody grabbed for the delicious-smelling food. He made a gesture, and the other blonds, familiar with this, reached to join hands. France on his right and England on his left, he followed suit.

America joined hands with France and Canada. He smiled. "Hm . . . I'm thankful for Earle Dickson, for this food . . . and I'm thankful that I get to eat it with people that care for me. And for the turkey not becoming the national bird." He looked at Canada.

"I'm, um, thankful for being able to have a meal with my brothers." He glanced at France. "All of them."

England pulled in a breath. "I am . . . thankful for a—a warm, pleasant place to be this Thursday night."

Everyone looked at Lithuania, who reddened at the attention. So it was his turn All he had to do was say what he was thankful for? It didn't matter what? Well, of course it did. And everyone sounded like they were telling the truth. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I am thankful for the distance the ocean puts between here and my home."

There was silence for a moment. Then he felt France shift, and he opened his eyes. "I am thankful for the beauty that surrounds me, and the lack of English cooking . . . though it might not have been so bad with four people supervising."

"Git," England muttered. And with that, dinner was served.

There were many snide remarks, though they didn't seem to hold the venom they usually did, and jokes, as well as anecdotes of previous Thanksgiving dinners, and somehow the conversations kept circling back to either America's head or England's cooking.

When Lithuania politely pushed his plate back and said he was full, everyone else told him politely that is was customary to eat until he had to unbutton his pant. Upon the look that took hold of his face, everyone cracked up, and his plate was refilled, with cranberry sauce, turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, ham, and corn-on-the-cob.

He didn't have to unbutton his pants when he took his final bite, though. His stomach wouldn't take any more; he felt it would burst if he even had to look at another forkful of food. Canada and England were trying to cover yawns, and France's plate was shoved toward the middle of the table to make room for his elbows, which propped up his hands that his chin was resting on. America was slumped in his chair, staring at the ceiling with a sleepy, serene look on his face.

Lithuania had no idea how, that even though they ate so much, the table still wasn't lacking in food. They had called it a meal, but it was a feast.

Canada got up and cleared the table, then set out smaller plates and brought out the pies. Pecan, lemon, and pumpkin stared dauntingly at the Baltic. Oh, no. There was no way he could eat even a single slice. France groaned, but cut himself a very thin piece. On the other hand, America took a very _big_ piece. England looked at the cake as a child might look at a huge place of unwanted vegetables, and he reached for his tea. Lithuania squeezed his eyes shut. There was no way.

"I-I'm sorry." He slowly pushed his chair away from the table.

America, hovering over his pie, fork poised in hand, looked up at Lithuania rather blankly. "What?"

"I . . . I cannot eat any more." He shook his head as if to emphasize.

The blond blinked, looked at his pie, then back up at the Baltic. "Oh. That's fine." He grinned. "We probably should let out stomachs settle before digging into dessert, anyway." He groaned as he stood, motioned everyone else to stand, then brought his arms up with flourish, and lead them all to the living room.

One by one they crawled into the fort. They tried laying down, but their stomachs protested, so they settled on sitting in a circle. It was rather stuffy in there, so America crawled back out to try and make what he called a window. With his first attempts, the top sunk, and there were various exclamations of surprise. America's response was mischievous laughter. When the top was finally fixed, and a window was in place—which America stuck his arm through, rousing another round of complaints—the blond crawled back in.

"So . . ." he started, settling against the couch Lithuania was leaning back on. "Got any jokes?"

Everyone thought for a moment. "I-I do not think it . . . will . . . trans-translate well," the Baltic mumbled.

France shrugged. "And you English-speakers to not appreciate my jokes."

"You bloody git—you know you think my humor is too dry."

America sighed. "Okay fine," he said, not denying any of it. "How about cards?"

Everyone sort of agreed. They decided on Crates, because after some explaining, they realized they were all familiar with the game. Though a bit into it, Canada and America started arguing about the rules. France left because "the shitty English tea" was upsetting his stomach, England stabbing him with insults all the way out.

Lithuania found himself rather sleepy. Even though there was a window, it was hot inside the fort. That coupled with the amount of food he had to go through only made his eyelids heavier. Plus, he was so comfortable. All the pillows England could find were in the fort; they made it that much harder to stay conscious. The Baltic resisted a yawn and watched the commotion a moment more, before feeling himself slouch. It didn't seem important to stay awake. It was obvious America and Canada weren't planning on agreeing anytime soon—especially since England joined the argument. And when it was time for pie, they would wake him up. He was sure of it.

* * *

**AN;; (- whoa-I figured out how to change the sizes. This is so cool~!)  
**

**I wonder what it'd be like if everyone knew every language in the world.**

**Okay, onto the story. I'M SO SORRY FOR THE LACK OF PLOT AND THIS IS, LIKE, 6 THOUSAND SOMETHING WORDS AND FOR THERE TO BE NO PLOT SEEMS WORSE THAN BLASPHEMY I KNOW.**

**D :**

**But I did try to sneak a few things in there, if you can catch them (most of the things mentioned below are not the things that were sneaked. Otherwise they wouldn't be sneaky).  
**

**Do you have any idea how hard it is to write happy chapters? 1923 (the year this is taking place jsyk-cyber cookies to all the detectives that already figured it out~) is just. AH.**

**Lithuania had a planned revolt to get the Klaipėda Region, which apparently Poland, France, and I-don't-remember-who-else wanted. He was given it in January, but then in February, the League of Nations gave Vilnius to Poland! I read somewhere that after that, Russia was Lithuania's only friend, and I was like: "Yeah, Russia. Just go and be friendly and be all BECOME ONE behind his back, why don'tcha."**

**From what I read (and interpreted) France really wanted Klaipeda for some reason. Which is some of the tension you see. That, and I can't exactly see the two getting along very well.**

**If you're behind someone's back, wouldn't that logically mean you're in front of them? I don't understand . . .**

**As for the newspapers-I pretty much googled for information on America in 1923. Or, like, events and such. September was quite a month!**

** America and Canada fighting over Crates (Crazy 8's)? I read that we have different rules than Canadians, so. :3**

**My deepest apologies, by the way. I was, like, nearly finished with this chapter when it occurred to me that-hey! I should look up on wiki and see what France's, England's, and Canada's personalities are!**

**If you read through the whole chapter and went raving mad at their OOC-ness, again, I'm sorry. **

**What else, what else... Uhhhh**

**I have no idea what most people eat for Thanksgiving. At my house, we have turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green beans, and black olives. Yeah, I don't really know why we eat olives, but they're there. I think one year we had rice, because we were out of potatoes. It didn't taste right at all, and it's EXTREMELY hard to dip turkey in rice.**

**What's figgy pudding? Is that even what it's called? You don't have to answer that.**

**OHYEAH GRAVY I FORGOT THE GRAVY MY BAD. I hate gravy. They'll have it next year. /ohsobiased**

**Have you ever tried translating jokes into different languages? It . . . doesn't usually work. Or else my experiences have just been bad.**

**I wonder if anyone actually reads all this.**

**Yes, back to earlier! It's hard to write happy chapters, but I promise things will get better later on! They reeeeeeaallly will.**

**Oh, and can anyone name the disorder Lithuania's suffering from?**

**Typing of Lithuania, did you know that in the early 20th century the average height of Lithuanian males was about _163 cm_? or . . . what would that be . . . gah, I hate converting. They teach us both in school, but hardly remind us of the conversion formula . . . about _5'4"_? Something like that. And they were really thin. Well, that's what Wikipedia says.**

**Am I going to use this information to my advantage? Why, yes. Yes of course I am~**

**I think that was all I wanted to mention. Gosh, these things keep getting longer and longer. I'll try to keep the next one short. : )**

**EDIT... I feel so silly. The size didn't change when this was saved, so erase the first part of the note from your mind, please.**

**And for some reason I forgot to mention-Earle D. (I forgot how to spell his last name) invented the Band-Aid.  
**


	9. Unexpected Guest

Something crashed and Lithuania shuddered violently. His eyes cracked open. Why was it so bright? He reached up and found that there was a book in front of his face, and blood in his mouth. _That was probably the crash . . ._

His vision adjusted. It revealed he was still in the fort, though it had been disastrously remodeled; he was laying against the couch; it was daytime, judging by the light; and America's foot was on top of him and digging into his side. The Baltic carefully moved it, but with the blond sleeping, the foot dropped right back to where it had been before. Lithuania grimaced and moved it with more force, then held it down as he sat up.

America hadn't been the only one to fall asleep in the fort. Well, on the fort. France's head was using Canada's stomach as a pillow, and England was completely under blankets that made up the demolished fort. Judging their positions, he had crawled under, then America, France, and Canada plopped on top of it. Lithuania made sure to not step on anyone as he made his way out.

After he freshened up and changed into new clothes, he peeked in the kitchen, wondering if it would give a clue as to what had happened. There were four plates that had remnants of pie that brought a little pang in his chest. So they hadn't waken him up.

"Hello," America said over the Baltic's shoulder. Lithuania jumped, landing his head in, by the sounds of it, America's mouth.

"H-I'm sorry!"

"Uuuurh . . . don' w'rry 'boud id," the blond mumbled, hand over the injury.

"Is—is it bleeding?"

"Yeah, pro'l'ly," America answered to his horror. "Hey, 'ut now we match!"

Lithuania's mind went to his own split lip, and his brows went down. He'd stopped it from swelling too much, and had to act quickly to save America's lip. He hurried into the kitchen and took an ice cube from the icebox, rag from the cupboard, and made a cold compress while America lumbered around and apparently decided to make coffee. The American took it with a smile.

There was a thump and a loud groan in the other room, followed by Canada trying to justify something he did by saying he wasn't a pillow, and normal people didn't do those sorts of strange things to pillows, so France needed to quit anyway. The Frenchman's laugh echoed through the house. Then there were footsteps, and the two entered the kitchen.

"Mon dieu! What were you both doing?" he asked with an exaggerated gasp, as well as a meaning Canada blushed at just thinking about.

America chuckled and waved, as if batting France's inference away. "You see, Toris and I met this girl the other day—we're both really sweet on 'er, but she can't have _two_ fellas—and so we had ourselves a little tussle."

Lithuania blinked. Sweet? "Mi—Alfred, what does . . . oh. _Oh_. Oh? N-no, that's not what happened!" he insisted to the two blonds with surprised looks on their faces, struggling to keep himself from flailing his arms.

France shrugged and shook his head. To him, it seemed to be categorized as a perfectly reasonable answer. "Is there anything for headaches?"

"Yeah, sure. Check wherever," America said, flapping his same hand in the direction of the rest of the house and returning to brewing the coffee.

Canada went to sit in a chair; the motion caused America to glance over and freeze, jaw slack.

". . . What?" the Canadian asked warily.

"Didn't you—how did those get there?"

Canada looked at the chair he was seated in. "Chairs? Oh, the ones in the living room are from the dining room."

America continued standing with his mouth open, as if he was going to say something. He sucked in a breath, then turned to get some mugs. "Sounds good!"

Lithuania frowned. "Are . . . are you ill, Mi—Alfred?"

"What—no. _No._" America laughed a little. "It's just that last night—oh, is Artie awake?"

France snorted.

Canada leaned forward in his chair. "You could say that."

"Mi—Alfred, I am lost."

"Well, _Francis_ is to blame," America said, shooting France a look.

The Frenchman almost giggled. "How else were you planning on celebrating?"

"It really _was_ uncalled for," Canada said.

"I don't understand." The Baltic's stomach tightened with a rather foreboding feeling.

"Francis spiked Artie's tea. The whole pot of it."

"Wh-what?"

"Okay," America said, setting two mugs of coffee down so he could talk with his hands. "You know how he got up to go to the bathroom the night before?"

Lithuania nodded. "He said something about the tea."

"Uh-huh. And after he used the john, he snuck into the kitchen and put some—what was it?"

"Eh . . . it doesn't really matter, oui?"

"Yes, it most certainly—"

"Well whatever it was, it was enough to get Artie to actually say _'whirlies' _. . . The tea was spiked," America cut off his brother with a poor explanation. There was a moment of silence, then America looked at France. "I agree with Mattie; what _was_ in there? I mean, there was definitely alcohol, but we slept so late. Look, it's already ten!" He handed a mug to his brother, another to Lithuania, and filled two more.

The Frenchman shrugged deviously. America opened his mouth to say something, but Canada started so violently he almost fell from his seat.

"Um . . . Mattie?" America asked when the Canadian didn't say anything. From what Lithuania could see, the quiet blond was too overwrought to speak.

"F-Francis!" Canada uttered frenetically. Everyone except the Frenchman stepped closer.

". . . Oui?"

"Kumakaneg!"

"Kuma-_what?_" America squinted, as if it would help him hear.

"M-my bear! I wa—M_aple!_" The Canadian held his head in his hands.

Lithuania jumped, remembering yesterday. "Oh!"

"Qu'est-ce—?"

"I was supposed to leave this morning! I only left out food enough for a couple days for Kuma, and . . . and I need to go." Canada stood and left for his room faster than Lithuania had ever seen him move.

"Oh," America said as he also recalled the day before.

France sipped at his coffee. "Mmm, I think I will be off as well," he sighed.

America's eyes lit up. "Really?" he asked, which attained him an elbow in the ribs.

"Can you possibly believe I would rather stay and _endure_ your harsh, American treatment?"

"Maybe if I tilt my head and squint."

"Squint at what?" Canada asked as he popped back in. He appeared calmer than before, but a wild glint of urgency nagged at his features. His winter coat was flung about his shoulders, threatening to slide off and his shoelaces were flopping—undone-about his restless feet. Lithuania noted that he and America were much more similar than he originally thought.

"Aw nothing. Hey, do you want me to make you somethin' to eat while you're on the road?"

The blond shook his head. "No, please—I mean thank you—I have to go."

"Sure. I'll help you load up your stuff . . . bag . . . here, I'll take that," America said, determined to be of assistance.

The four proceeded outside, where America threw the bag in the back and Canada cranked his car.

"Oh, Francis. Are you leaving with me or Arthur? Or . . . is Alfred driving you to someplace? Or are you just—" The bar jerked back and undid itself, causing a surprised Canadian to jump backward. "_Maaaple_," he groaned.

"Just calm down," America said as his brother weakly kicked a tire of the car. "I'll start it if you want. It's probably the cold or something. Don't cast a kitten on us."

A shoulder went up in a feeble shrug. "Nah, I'm done."

"I mean . . . you said someone was watching Kuma-whatever, right?"

"Kumajonno."

"Right. So it's not that bad. Just pay 'em extra, you know?"

Canada closed his eyes. "That's just it. They're leaving for . . . for _something_—oh, what was it? It was . . ."

"So they're not there?"

He shook his head. "They—I told them I left my back door open, though, in case they needed anything, oh, and I need to get him s'more food, but Kuma's probably okay."

"There you go!" America clapped him on the shoulder and situated his falling coat. "That's the way to think."

France, seeing his turn to interject, sweetly took his turn: "As much as I enjoy the privilege of being able to watch two brothers commence in reassurance, I—"

"If you're going with Mattie, gather up your stuff."

The Frenchman sniffed and turned on his heel.

"It's freezing out here," the American declared with a shiver. "I'm goin' in. You coming?"

Lithuania nodded and Canada shook his head. The former followed America to the door and the latter squinted up at the sky, puffs of air billowing around him.

"Aw." America started blinking as the warmth encompassed them. "My glasses." Fog blossomed across the lenses as cold glass met heat.

France rushed passed them with all of his belongings and sprang over the stairs, slipping on the ice he didn't see at the bottom, and although he managed to regain his footing with an astonishing amount of grace, he had to regather his belongings that lay scattered about in front of him.

America closed the door on the sight and snickered a little. He cast a sidelong glace at Lithuania, trying to keep a smile off his face. "Let's go check on Artie."

In the living room, England was still under the blankets, but he was now curled in a ball with the covers tightly over his head. America carefully stepped over the blond and lowered himself by his head.

"Good morning."

"Bloody fucking hell—blow it, Alfred."

America grinned up at Lithuania, who was standing by the Englishman's back. "Isn't he just a ball of sunshine?"

"Alfred, if you don't bugger off—"

"What? You'll get violent? Artie, you're probably as thin as Toris." Lithuania pursed his lips and tried not to think of that as a blow to his manhood.

England was quiet for a moment. Then there came a small: "If you do not fucking leave this instant I will personally see to it that all—"

"I get it, I get it," America said, raising his hands in a surrender that England couldn't see. He slowly stood, then motioned for Lithuania to follow him to the hall. He grabbed both their coats, dug around for some shoes—finally settling for winter boots, since his shoes had been discarded in the living room—and tiptoed up to the nearest end of the couch. He waved Lithuania back to the front door down the hall.

"And hey . . . Artie . . . jus'so you know, I will not tolerate profanity in this house," he said quietly. Lithuania heard a thump, and what sounded like England thrashing, as well as an angry roar. America was racing toward him, mouthing _go_, while trying not to laugh. America flew over the steps but, unlike France, he cleared the ice. Lithuania hurried behind him, using the stairs and not taking chances.

Safely through the little, white gate, America handed the Baltic his coat.

"So," the blond started, shoving an arm into his own jacket. "Where do you wanna go?"

Lithuania quickly pulled his on and buried his hands in his pockets. "Um . . ."

"We aren't far from the ocean, you know. We could go to the beach."

"It's . . . it's a little cold out."

America chuckled. "We wouldn't go swimming. It just looks nice in the winter."

"Oh. Is it close . . . enough to walk to?"

"In this weather? Probably not. Here, I'll go get the car. Don't move." With that, America jogged the short distance back to his house, leaped over the fence, and disappeared up the driveway.

Lithuania swayed from side to side, not wanting to stand still. It had definitely gotten colder; winter was probably on the way. America hadn't mentioned anything about it being another cold snap. The grass was rigid and white with frost. Minuscule icicles hung from trees' branches, and brittle ice crusted around the edges of the sidewalk stones. If this _was_ another cold snap, it would be a long one.

The car puttered up to the side of the road and America leaned over to see out the window. He beckoned the Baltic forward. Lithuania gladly joined him inside.

"Let's see . . . which way again?"

"You do not know how to get there?"

America laughed merrily. "Every road goes somewhere. Don't worry, I won't get us too terribly lost."

Too terribly lost. Lithuania closed his eyes.

"But I know for a _fact_, that it's east from here," he continued as they rounded a right corner.

Lithuania had learned from frightful experience to not distract the American while he was driving. Especially since the blond distracted himself more than should've been safe. So, Lithuania kept his mouth in a tight line and hoped for the best. He entertained himself by making a list of questions he planned to someday ask America: _Why does your property have a small white fence around it? The fence does not protect you from being burgled; it is too short. Why do you like to pester Mr. Kirkland? Why have you not gone in the cellar, and how did you acquire your favorite canned food down there before I came to work for you? Why do you say you need to fix things, but you never do? Why do you insist on not letting me fix them, even though I came specifically to work for you? Why was the . . . that amendment passed to illegalize alcohol? Is illegalize a word? Wh—_

"We're here!"

Lithuania jumped. "H-here?"

"Well, just about. I don't really know where the road is that gets us over there, so we'll just have to walk through these folks' yard." America pulled over and cut the engine.

Lithuania was about to ask if they were allowed, but it was America. He would do it even if they weren't allowed, and if they got caught, he would talk his way out of it and possibly even into a friendship with their captors. If he wasn't already friends with the people whose yard they were using as a shortcut.

As they crossed, no one saw them. On the other side, the world changed immensely.

"Mi—Alfred, where are we?"

"I guess it's kinda like a boardwalk, but not really."

They shuffled down a small hill and hit concrete. A long, wide, path of concrete. There was a rail at the end, and on the other side of the rail there proved to be a thin strip of rocks, followed by a short drop to angry, gray water. Lithuania looked over his shoulder, and back maybe a hundred yards, the concrete slanted down and gave way to wood, which had docks jutting out every so often. Boats sprinkled the area, and silhouettes of a few men were scattered about. In front of him, the concrete also slanted down, but not nearly as much. As they walked, Lithuania noticed the railing taper off when the path met glazed-over beach sand.

"You should see this place in the summer," America said, pointing with his thumb behind him. "So busy, that bar back there's necessary to keep people from getting shoved into the ocean."

Lithuania looked back once more.

"The place's full of vendors and young adults in swimming suits—it's really something, actually. Your place has beaches, right?"

The Baltic nodded, watching a gull sail across the overcast sky. It squawked and spiraled down to the ocean, catching a breeze at the last second and drifted safely away from the algid sea. The bird squawked again, as if it knew it had an audience. Another one came into view, and a third soared high above the others.

"I wonder what they do in the winter," America mused.

Lithuania glanced at him. "I do not know either." He pondered the idea for a moment, then smiled. "Out of all the years I have ever seen the birds, I really do not know . . . what they do in the winter."

The blond grinned. "Isn't it so strange? I know geese and other birds head south, and it's usually pretty obvious. But gulls just . . . _disappear_, I guess."

Lithuania started to shrug, but it turned into a hunched-shouldered duck as the wind whistled past. "Well, let's keep going," America directed when it let up. They lumbered on in silence, leaning toward the periodic gusts. The Baltic's eyes watered and cheeks stung. He could see a blurry America holding his glasses with one hand and holding his coat collar with the other. Lithuania's eyelids fluttered several times before settling on squeezing shut.

The air settled and the countries straightened. They were on the other side of the beach, now; the railing was back, too. America stooped and gathered a handful of small rocks under the rail, though a few slipped and tumbled over the edge.

"Ouch."

America froze. He dropped another.

"_Ouchy._"

He looked up at Lithuania, who approached quickly and squatted in response to the blond's peculiar expression. They stuck their heads under the rail and peered over the rocks.

Two, gray, wide eyes peered back.

"Um. Hello," America said in a bewildered tone. "Um . . . don't move. 'Kay? Just . . . don't move." He grabbed Lithuania collar and pulled them both away from the edge.

"H-how did the little girl get there, Mi—Alfred?"

"I h—I have no idea. I absolutely . . ." He fell into silence. They sat there a moment, listening to waves crash. They crawled to the edge once more.

"Zdravstvuĭte," the little girl mumbled.

The men shared another look, in which it was decided Lithuania would speak. The Baltic hesitantly cleared his throat. "Zdravstvuĭ . . ." He glanced at America. "K-kak teb'a zovut ?"

"Irina."

Lithuania had to stretch his neck and lean to hear her small voice. He smiled. "Irina?"

"Da." A hand was tangled in her dark curls.

"Vy govorite po-angliĭski?"

She shifted and looked at the rocks below her before grinning up at him. "Da!" she chirped.

"Do you understand me?"

"Da."

"What color is my hair, Irina?" he asked, wanting to confirm her answer.

The girl puckered her lips and untangled her hand from her hair, reaching for his own. "H-it is . . . brown."

Lithuania nodded. "Good."

"Are you stuck, Irina?" America asked, scooting next to the brunette.

"Nye . . . no. I think—I th-I was—I played and I got here and walked from—" she turned and pointed with her right arm to a ledge that only a child could hope to get across. "From there."

"Oh, well, how about you come up here?"

Her eyes lingered on the way she came. "Da. I'll-it will be a m-a minute." She started to shuffle along, but America interjected:

"Irina, how about I pick you up? That's a fun way to end the adventure, right?"

She tilted her head. "Um. Da." She smiled and raised her arms in the seemingly natural way children did when they wanted to lifted.

"Now, just a minute." America backed away. Lithuania watched as he stood, checked the railing, then climbed to the other side. The blond slowly lowered himself to the ledge a bit away from the little girl. Lithuania got to his feet as well, ready to receive the child when America lifted her over. America beckoned her forward with one hand, and gripped the railing with the other. She came closer. He crouched, and enveloped her in a single-armed hug.

"Hold on," he said. Then he straightened.

Lithuania grabbed her under her arms and swung her to the ground. She smiled and looked down, flapping her arms.

"Well, I think we hit on all sixes!" America declared happily. He brushed his hands on his pants with a grin. There was a cracking sound, and Lithuania's blood went cold. His eyes locked with America's, whose smile vanished. His body vanished with it as the ledge crumbled under his weight. One of his hands shot out and he gripped the round rail-bar with a loud slap. His body slammed into the into the rocks. America winced, letting out a very surprised _"oof!"_

Lithuania sprang to the railing. "H-here! Take my hand." He braced himself and leaned over with his hands outstretched. The blond brought his other hand up and they grasped each other's wrists. Lithuania felt all of his muscles tense.

"It's fine—fine. I got it," America said, waving his head back and forth. He grunted, slowly pulling himself up. His knees inched over the edge. Lithuania could hear the jagged stone rip America's trousers. He secured a foot and hoisted his other up, straightened, then offered the brunette a half-smile. "Hot dawg!" he exclaimed while hopping over the rail. He shook Lithuania's hand and grinned at Irina.

"You almost . . . had a fall," she mumbled with wide eyes and fingers in her mouth.

"You bet I did," he agreed, crouching down in front of her. "And look!—I even tore my pants!" He sounded excited. Proud, even. Lithuania couldn't tell if it was because he was able to successfully . . . _not_ fall—he would have to ask America what word described "not falling" in English. Lithuania added that to his mental list, then shook his head. What was he doing? He had to concentrate!

_On what?_ he wondered to himself. He shook his head again. He didn't have any of France's "spiked" tea, so he had no reason for acting strange. And having a small child in their company was not an excuse, either.

Though America's thoughts seemed to differ. The blond had his cheeks puffed out and eyes crossed. Irina was laughing, and she took of his glasses, trying them on herself. She stumbled back from the shock of the strange vision change. America chuckled and she giggled, then stuck them back on his face upside down.

America stopped abruptly. "Irina, are you cold?" he asked very seriously. She wasn't wearing a coat!

She shook her head.

"Irina."

"Da."

"Are you cold? You don't have a coat on."

"Da."

America frowned for a moment. He unbuttoned his and slipped it off, but she was absolutely swimming in it.

"H-how about mine?" Lithuania took off his own, but it was also much too big for the girl.

America's eyes lit up. "Toris, your sweater!"

"My—" The Baltic looked down. "Oh." He unbuttoned the sweater America had bought him a few weeks before, and draped over Irina's shoulders before falling victim to a violent shudder. How could a _little girl _stand the cold for as long as she did? He helped her with the armholes and rolled up the sleeves while America re-buttoned the front. Both countries then quickly pulled their coats back on.

"Okay, let's play Follow the Leader, Irina. I'm the leader," America said.

"Da."

The blond smiled. "Good." He hugged himself and rubbed his arms. "Brr!"

"Brr!" the child copied. She looked up at Lithuania and pointed accusingly. "You. Why do you not play?"

"That's Toris. I'm Alfred," America told her. "And yeah! Why _aren't _you playing?" Lithuania felt his face grow hot; America beamed at him.

"Brr . . ." he mumbled, rubbing his arms.

Irina clapped her hands.

"Brrr!" America danced in circles, still rubbing his arms. When they stopped, all three were slightly wobbly. "Which way to the car?"

"The . . . car?" Lithuania squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to make everything stop spinning. "It's, um, back—back that way," he replied, gesturing to the other side of the beach.

"Oh. Yeah. To the car!" America pumped a fist in the air and started an exaggerated march.

"To the car!" Irina repeated.

"To the car."

America lead them in circles across the path, and would stop suddenly, making the child giggle and Lithuania panic, because he really didn't want to run over the girl. By the time they reached the other side of the beach, Lithuania's heart was beating rapidly, and a thin sweat covered his face. And it hit him: America was trying to keep them warm. It was working, too. Whether through fear or exercise, the Baltic was definitely not as cold as before. The tiny brunette was breathing hard as well.

They crossed through the yard, once again unseen, and America cranked the car to a start. They slid in, Irina between the two countries, and America smoothly pulled into the road.

"You did really good, Irina."

Her response was a giggle.

"And you, too, Toris."

Lithuania blinked. What was he supposed to say to that? He did not plan on giggling like the little girl. "Ah, you as well, Mi—Alfred."

"I . . . I goo—I am good at games," Irina said, trying to see out of all of the windows.

America laughed. "Yes. You are."

"And I can march. I march, too. I'm good at it, too."

"Who taught you to march?"

"My—I learned from Daddy. He was . . . from this place. Here."

"America?"

"Da."

"Where's your daddy? We should take you there. You're probably getting hungry, Irina."

She shook her head, curls bouncing. "Nuh-uh. I home with Mama."

"Oh?"

"Da. And Mi . . . Mr. Ickle." Irina started humming and fiddling with the sweater sleeves.

Lithuania frowned, looking from face to face. He felt he missed something. America was silent, eyes fixed on the road, an attentively blank look on his face as if he was actually watching where he was going. Was it because there was a child in the car?

Freezing rain started to lightly build on the windshield, and the two passengers stared in awe as it turned to snow right before their eyes.

America swerved around the corner, out of the way of an oncoming car, making them all jerk to the right. Lithuania concluded that the blond was, in fact, not watching the road, and became extremely puzzled as to what he was really doing. Irina clutched his coat sleeve for balance and beamed up at him. The Baltic's frown deepened. Was he simply worrying to much?

When they reached the house, America hopped right out of the vehicle, and pulled Irina with him. Lithuania exited more quietly. They carefully went up the steps, having to be careful with a child in tow. America jiggled the knob. Which was locked. Color drained from Lithuania's face. No. There was no way he was going to climb to the second-story window on the icy roof. He stepped forward and knocked.

A few minutes later, there were footsteps, and then England opened the door, looking much better than he sounded earlier that day. He started to great them, but stopped short, seeing what America held in his arms. "What in the world, Alfred? Who is that?"

America grinned. "This is Irina." She waved shyly. "We found her."

England's eyes widened. "What could have possibly possessed you to bring a child home? She isn't a _puppy_, for goodness' sake! "

America sighed. "I _know_ that." He pushed past the Englishman and set her on the chest by the door. England stumbled back, scowling at him, then looked at Lithuania and held the door for him.

"She was cold," the Baltic said.

"Well . . . you can't keep her."

America took off his glasses and set them on the shorter blond's head. "I know _that_, too." He helped her out of the sweater and patted her locks. They proceeded to race down the hall with their arms stuck out like airplanes, America being a little squished. England and Lithuania watched in silence as they disappeared in the living room.

"He is good with children," Lithuania offered. He took off his coat and unlaced his boots.

England let out a snort. "That's because he still is one." He folded the glasses and hooked them onto his pocket. "I'm going to make some tea," he sighed. "Would you like a cup?"

"N-no thank you," Lithuania answered just a little too fast.

England shrugged before realizing. His face turned red. "Damn that frog!" he exclaimed, causing Lithuania to jump. "My tea is not as _nearly_ as bad as he made it seem. It is not poison, and it is not . . . not _whatever_ that was we drank last night."

"Artie, really? There's a child in the house! Will ya watch your language?" America shouted from the other room.

The Englishman bit his lip and closed his eyes. After calming himself he sighed. "If you happen to change your mind, I'll be in the kitchen." With that, Lithuania was alone.

Though America instantly flew through the swinging door. "Whoa, did I just hear you say the K-word? No way, bud . . ." Their voices became muffled as the door settled closed.

In the living room, the Baltic found Irina sitting on the floor and making shadow puppets under the flashlight America had positioned in the chair above. She alternated from staring at her hand and moving her fingers to staring at her hand's shadow and moving her fingers. She turned when she heard him and beamed. "Look! Krolik. He is . . . he is good listener." She wiggled her index and middle finger, the rest balled together.

He smiled. "Da. Etoochenʹ horoshiĭ krolik."

She nodded very seriously. He sat down next to her and made his own bunny. "They are . . . they dance through the flower. See?" She waved her other hand under the light. Lithuania wasn't sure how that was supposed to signify flowers, but he went along with it. "O! Medvedʹ! Raaahr!" She bent her fingers to make them resemble claws and clamped her hands down over Lithuania's bunny.

What was he supposed to say to _that?_ She smiled up at him and he laughed. Her own laughter turned into a yawn, and she let go to rub and eye.

"Vy ustali?"

"Nyet."

"Irina."

" . . . Da."

He scooped her up and took her to the couch, then grabbed a blanket and handed it to her. She patted the spot next to her. He sat. To his surprise, she crawled into his lap and laid her head over his heart. "Sing song?"

He hesitated, then started petting her head. Then stopped. She wasn't a cat. "Wh-what song?"

"Sing."

He racked his brain for any Russian song, because he couldn't remember any American ones, and highly doubted she knew Lithuanian. The first one that came to mind was a war song that was drilled into his head from all the times a very drunk Russian sang it, so he settled on the next one.

"Si-_ing._" Irina sat up, looking very impatient.

He cleared his throat. "V-vozle ryetshki, vozle mosta—"

She clapped. "I knew—I know _that_ one!"

"D-do you want a different one?"

"Nyet. I like it." She curled up and rested her head back on his chest.

"Vozle ryetshki, vozle mosta, vozle ryetshki vozle mosta trava rosla . . ." Lithuania let his mind wander as the girl drifted to sleep. It had been a long time since he sang. And he never would have suspected he would break his silence with a Russian song. He recalled pleasant times so long ago when he would sing while doing just about anything. Everyone sang. He wondered if his people still sang as much as they used to. A string pulled taught inside Lithuania. A longing to go home.

America came bounding in, glasses back on, when he was almost done with the song the second time through. Lithuania cut himself off and tapped a finger against his lips. The blond halted. He tiptoed over Lithuania and took a seat next to him.

"You sing?"

"Ye—" Lithuania winced and swallowed. He settled for nodding.

"Tea?"

Another nod. America jumped up and loudly whispered for England, and when there was no answer, left to go get find the man himself. Both of them entered the living room and sat on the couch, the Englishman on the other side of America. He sipped quietly at his tea, obviously irritated. America handed Lithuania his.

The Baltic gratefully took a drink. His throat was still sore from lack of use, but it felt much better. "Yes," he answered.

"In _Russian?_" America asked incredulously. England elbowed him in the ribs.

"Sometimes it is easier to sing another language than it is to speak it."

"I guess that makes sense."

They sat in silence for a while, Lithuania and England slowly drinking their tea. The Baltic started overheating under the child and blanket. He shifted, trying to gauge how deep a sleeper she was, but to no avail.

"Let's go play cards or something while she naps. C'mon," America whispered at last.

England shrugged.

"I can't."

"What?"

"I-I _can't_. She—I don't want to wake her."

America pursed his lips. His eyes brightened again, with a new idea in mind. "Okay, I'll read you a story." He tiptoed to the book shelf and started a search. After a few minutes of flipping through books, he settled on one. "What language is this?" He walked over, pointing to a line on the second page of the story.

Lithuania leaned forward as much as he could without threatening to stir the child. His eyes widened. "Where did you get this book?"

America grinned. "S'a gift from twenty years ago or so. Just haven't had a chance to read it."

"And you are going to read it now?"

"I don't see why not." He sat down and cleared his voice, turning to the first page. "Ready?" England and Lithuania nodded. "Chapter one . . ."

Lithuania closed his eyes to the American's living room and opened them to a bustling city. A forceful woman named Marija was on her way to a place, most likely a party, after a ceremony. Many people followed behind her as she urged her driver to push the horses faster with harsh words and insults. Marija was very much in charge and when she reached the building—

"Um, Toris? How do you pronounce that?"

His eyes slid open and followed America's finger to the spot in the book. "Eik?"

"Uh, yeah."

"E-I is like in . . . hey. Day. Sleigh. Eik. It means go."

"Oh. So it's like she's yelling at them to go?"

"Yes. To go close the door."

"I see."

Lithuania saw England staring at them. America looked over, too.

"What?"

England shook his head.

"_What?_ I do see."

"I know you do . . ."

"What?" America frowned.

"Nothing."

America shrugged. And turned back to the book, butchering the pronunciation of the brunette's language, while the latter corrected him. They reached the end of the party after the wedding, when Irina finally awakened.

"Hello," America greeted with a smile.

She blinked and rubbed her eyes, then frowned. "My uzhe s Vami zdorovalisʹ."

Lithuania's eyebrows shot up.

"Toris? Some help?"

"She—you greeted her twice."

"So?"

"It . . . it isn't customary to greet twice in Russia."

America snorted. "That's silly."

Lithuania shrugged. He had grown rather used to it.

"What about asking someone how they are? That's like a greeting! And if you can only greet someone once—what if something changes during the day? What if in the morning they're horrible, but at the end of the day they're swell?"

The argument seemed valid, but in reality, Lithuania's days had usually gone from bad to worse, and it was rather depressing to ask twice, while he lived with Russia. Or else they went from good to bad. Either way, the majority had been worse in the end than when they started out. Lithuania figured the pattern was closely linked with how much the Russian would drink in the evening, and—

England sighed. "If you're that worried about it, Alfred, why not go take it up with Russia?"

Lithuania's jaw slackened just at the thought of Russia visiting.

Irina clapped her hands. "Mama is Russia!"

"What? Russia is definitely a fella! Right?"

The Baltic nodded.

"She is from there," Irina crooned.

"_That_ makes more sense."

"And-and so is Babulya!"

England smiled. "That sounds very nice."

"Nyet. It's not. Me and Mick . . . Mike . . . Mr. Ickle call her Babka, because she is scary and witch and—brr! She is—she's not nice to Mama. But Mama say we only call her Babulya."

"Oh." England's face was blank for a moment. The Russian was clearly lost on him, but Lithuania couldn't decide if he thought the little girl's words were funny or insolent. "D-do you like Mr.—" England cleared his throat "-Mr. Ickle?"

She nodded. "He knowed Daddy. Bef-before the Great War. He is nice. He tell—he tells story of he and Daddy. And sister. Mama had sister. She went away from sickness. She flew with sickness." The little brunette cut through the air with her hands, trying to make a bird.

The three countries were silent. England shifted uncomfortably. He smiled weakly at the girl. "Do . . . do you know where your mother lives?"

"Da-a," she lilted. "She—we are in the tower. Nyet. We are next—by the tower. R-red tower. And there is blanket. It goes 'whooooooh' on top. It has a Bar-Bar Ber shop on it but it is—it is dif-difif-not like it and there is not a barber. He does not have . . ." she frowned, then rubbed her upper lip. "He does not have it here."

"Wanna go find it?" America asked.

Irina nodded vigorously. "Mama will be worried. She say I can only play for a little."

America smiled and patted her head. "Let's get you covered up."

England and Lithuania drifted in and out of the living room, testing old sweaters and jackets on the little girl while America went to start the car. No one argued the fact that they were getting directions from a child to America. Though it did seem a little _hard to imagine_ her home would be found.

The Baltic furrowed his brow as he straightened the collar of a seasoned, wool coat that was the American's centuries ago. England backpedaled into the hall when he saw it. He frowned and adjusted the clothes draped over his arms before entering.

"It looks to be a perfect fit," he commented. "I . . . I'm surprised he still—"

The front door slammed against the wall. Cold air didn't diffuse until it gusted all the way to the living room. The two Europeans shared a concerned look. England tipped his head up, not veering from Lithuania's gaze as they listened to obscenities muttered down the hallway. "Alfred?" After a brief silence there was shuffling. America peeked into the room with a partially hidden expression the Baltic had never seen. But apparently England knew it well. "Alfred," he repeated, warning in his voice.

"Well, you see . . . the car—"

"Alfred!" England exploded with exasperation. He marched out of the room, making sure to push past America. Lithuania quickly picked up Irina and scuttled to the hallway.

America followed England. He threw his hands in the air and gave his own irritated sigh. "What? _What?_ I didn't even—"

England swiveled sharply on his heal and jabbed a finger at the American's nose. "O-ho-ho, do you think I'm daft? Don't forget the one who _raised_ you was me!" America lapsed into silence, but the tow-headed Englishman didn't allow the lack of sound to linger longer than an a heartbeat. He turned back to the door with his hands on his hips. "Where is it?" he demanded, peering out into the cold.

America rubbed his neck and joined England at the door. "Somewhere . . . I guess I didn't bring it all the way up . . . I turned the wheels, though! With the ground all wet, it appears it just . . ." his volume dwindled to silence.

"Why, you bloody ff—" England's attention was caught by a wide-eyed little girl and his face lifted into a very fake smile. "—ine chap, Alfred," he ground out with a laugh, slapping America's back much harder than to be considered friendly. "Let's find your car and be on our way." America tilted his head toward Lithuania, raising an eyebrow, but before he could say anything, England had a hold of his arm and yanked him out the door. America grabbed for it, and the wood slammed shut behind him.

Lithuania backed away so the little Irina wouldn't hear their intense 'adult' language on the other side. But not entirely for the sake of the girl. Ever since he arrived, the Baltic had been astounded and slightly taken aback at the amount of profanity that passed his ears. His time spent with Russia was barely plagued with such language. He was forbidden to say those words. It had been long time before he even understood them in Russian. But having the meanings in his knowledge did not change the Russian's rules. Any form of irreverence was punishable. Especially after the—

"Your face is funny. I laugh at it if you do not fix," Irina pouted, squishing his cheeks together. Lithuania stood stunned for a moment. Then he crossed his eyes and earned a giggle. "You are funny, Toris. Wh-what does . . . what is Toris?" She let go of his face and pulled on his bangs.

"It is my name."

"Name?"

"Your name is Irina. My name is Toris."

"Who name you? Babka name me."

Lithuania smiled. "You may call her _Babka_, but she is good at picking names, yes?"

Irina tugged a lock of his hair toward hers. "Da. My name is beh-bea-beauty. Like flowers and snowman." She returned his smile confidently. "My hair is a tree at night. Your hair is tree in day." She patted his head with a look of approval lighting her face. "Who name you? Wh-who give you name?"

"I . . . don't remember."

Irina's eyes grew with amazement and her hands flew back to his cheeks. "Oĭ! You do not remember?"

The Baltic grew nervous. His intention hadn't been to distress her. "N-no . . ."

"Not remember if it was Mama or Papa? Or Babulya o-or . . . no?" She shook her head sadly.

"You must understand, Irina; I am very old."

"You are not old than Mama."

"I am older than your mama. Very much older."

"Very?"

"Very."

"Will you go wrinkly and die soon?"

Lithuania laughed. "I hope not."

She gave a single, curt nod. "Good. Then when we meet again I say 'Nice greets!' like Mama does to friends, and we be friends. And I will be big and you won't carry like little baby because I am five and that when little babies are no longer allowed to be babies. O-or little. But now I'm just little—itty bitty Irina." She pressed her fingers together and squinted. "Bitty."

"D-do you want me to put you down?"

"Ummmm . . . no. I am not big girl, yet. Who is-is him?"

"Who?"

"Not Alf-Alfred."

"Mr. Kirkland?"

She giggled. "His name is funny."

"W-well, his first name is Arthur."

"Arthur . . . Barthur, Carthur, Darthur, E-arthur, Farthur, Garthur, Harthur . . ."

England and America burst in, stomping and rubbing their arms. "Jeepers Creepers, it's cold out there," America said.

England alternated between breathing on his fingers and stuffing them under his arms. "Git. You got full well what you deserved, but why the bloody—why drag me along with you?"

"_What?_ If I recall, _you_ were the one you dragged _me_—"

"Not literally! I do not mean literally! I wouldn't make you pay half the money to my Godda—my neighbor if _my_ car rolled into their bloody fence," the Englishman spat, holding his palms against his ears.

"Well, think of it as me returning the favor. Literal or not. And I said I'd repay you! I just didn't have my wallet on me!" He pulled on his coat and unhooked Lithuania's.

"You and all of your excuses, Alfred! You could have at _least_ asked."

"But I knew you'd say yes either way!"

"_That's not the point._"

"Are you hungry?" Lithuania asked Irina softly. She nodded, but didn't tear her eyes away from the two until the kitchen wall obstructed her view.

"They are mad?"

Lithuania glanced at England, who was almost seething, and America, who still had that twinkle in his eye. He stepped all the way into the kitchen and let the door swing shut behind him. "It will pass."

Irina pouted. "They do not like each other."

Lithuania smiled. "Irina, do you have siblings?"

She shook her head.

"Do you have a brother? Or maybe a sister?"

"Da. I do."

"That is a sibling. Do you shout?"

The brunette nodded. "We shout and pull an-and a lot but then we smile and are better and hug and say 'I love you' like Mama tell us to."

"Alfred and Mi—Arthur are like siblings."

"Oh. They d-don't . . . _not_ like each other?"

"Exactly. Now, what would you like to eat? Last night was Thanksgiving, and there is plenty of food left over."

She shrugged, preoccupied with sticking her fingers in her mouth and trying to see her foot over Lithuania's arm.

"Do you like turkey?"

"I no know."

"Have you eaten turkey before?"

"I no know."

The Baltic's brow furrowed. Come to think of it, he had no idea what she was allergic to. It wouldn't be safe to feed her something she was unfamiliar with, but at the same time, if she had to stay longer, it would be necessary to find her food. Lithuania's own stomach was starting to feel the bite of hunger. A check of the clock told him it was about time to start dinner. By the sounds of it, however, England and America were anything but ready to settle down and watch the child while he made something quick. And gauging the amount of snow whipping past the kitchen window, they either had to make haste and find Irina's house, or prepare lodgings for her overnight—possibly longer.

"Cran-anberry?"

"You like cranberry sauce?"

"Nyet. Mama makes it bitter."

"What . . . if . . . I made it not bitter?"

Irina grinned and clapped her hands. "Da!"

He set her on the table, which was clear of pie. He grimaced at a recollection of the morning. A hand instantly flew to his mouth. His lip was still a little swollen and there was a minute scab; not nearly as severe as earlier.

Lithuania dished a small bowl of cranberry sauce, mixed in a pinch of salt and a spoonful of sugar, then set it before the child along with a spoon.

She frowned.

"It will not be bitter," he assured her.

"Nyet. It will be salty." She pushed the bowl away and crossed her arms.

"Nye—no. There is not enough salt to taste."

She lowered a skeptical eyebrow. "Nyet."

"Do you not want to at least try it?"

The girl shook her head, ringlets whipping from side to side.

He sighed, pulling a chair next to her and seating himself. "Are you sure?" At her nod, he propped his left elbow on the table and balanced the side of his weary head on his hand. "Truly?"

She puffed out her cheeks. Quiet washed over and they both listened to the muffled sounds of the 'siblings' who had yet to leave the hall. Finally, Irina cast a sideways glance at the Baltic. "I'm hungry," she mumbled.

A smile played on his face. "You know . . . when I was small—maybe about your size—I was told that if I was certainly hungry, I would eat anything that was offered for me to eat. And if I was able to be biased about my meals, I was not hungry, and therefore, I went without."

Irina's eyes widened. "No breakfast? Or dinner?"

"And out of the foods available to eat, some of them were not very . . . very tasteful. They tasted bad. Whether it be from saltiness or bitterness."

"Did you eat that foods?"

Lithuania smiled. "When I was hungry I did. It was true; the taste did not matter when I was hungry."

The little brunette blinked at him, then focused on the bowl. "What—what if I think I am hungry . . . but I am not?"

He nodded at the bowl. "_Mama_ would probably tell you that it would be better to not be biased toward the food given to you at meals and not have to find out real hunger. Wouldn't she?"

" . . . Da. Bu-but what if it is salty and I no like cranberry sauce ever and forever? No matter what?"

"Then you will check it. Like this." Lithuania reached over with his right hand and dipped a finger in the sauce. Tasting it, he smiled. "I do not think it is salty." He pushed the in front of her. "What do you think?"

Irina sat up and peered into the dark, red substance. She mimicked his actions. "Nyet! It is not!"

Lithuania couldn't help laughing at her bewilderment. "See? Now eat and grow strong."

"And big! I will be big girl."

* * *

**AN;;; Well. This is crap. And the longest chapter I've ever written! D: I don't know if that's good or bad. But how could I make Canada and France leave and have them help-save a little girl in less than 8,975 words?**

**Holy moly, that's a lot of writing for having it turn out horrible. I keep saying holy moly. Why. I don't live in Oregon anymore.**

**The book America was reading is The Jungle by Upton Sinclair. At least I think that's the author. If it's not, sorry. I thought it was an absolutely amazing book until the end turned into major propaganda.**

**My elbow skin is sensitive, because I've been laying on my bed typing, propped up on them for hours for more than one day (not continuously-I have a life). Ouch.**

**Okay, there's lots of Russian in this chapter, and I'm not sure if all of it is correct. If you're Russian or are fluent in Russian, would you please be so kind as to point out anything wrong with it?**

**So I read that babushka means grandmother, but a witchy, old lady kind. And that babulya is more like an endearing form of the word. And that babka is a rude way to say it.**

**Mama is mama, be it English or Russian.**

**I read that people only greet each other once during the day (is that really true? It almost seems rude...) and that if someone greets you more than once (like an ignorant American) the response is usually "My uzhe s Vami zdorovalisʹ." Which apparently means:**

**"Could you please wipe that perpetual smirk off your face? Have you even looked outside at the weather today? There is no point to greeting more than once a day, and you look like a crazy person tenaciously torturing me with your "Привет!" every five minutes, so please give me a break in your language learning experience because you're scaring me into thinking that you are a "Человек с приветом".**

**...But I have no idea.**

**The song Lithuania sings is some Russian song (gosh it sounds horrible when I put it like that). I found it and the sheet music and played the tune and thought it sounded pretty.**

**Yes, I base things on pretty. At my friend's b-day party last year, we played with Yugio (I have no idea how to spell it. I almost typed smell) cards. Two of my friends were, like, experts and having a full-on battle or whatever, and then there was me and the other friend. Whichever card was prettier won. If it was shiny, it was an automatic win. Unless the color wasn't pretty. The other two got so mad at us that we were forbidden from playing ever again.**

**... I guess it was srs bidness.(?)**

**WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME.**

**Oh yes, watching HP 7 part 2 tomorrow, because that same friend's b-day party is TOMORROW. YAY. PARTY WOOOO~**

**I am too lonely. They're getting ready for a con for next April and are obsessed with Homestuck and I'm sitting at home because 1) I can't go since if I even mention the word 'anime' around my parents they are mad 2) I don't like homestuck and don't have the patience to force myself to like it.**

**At least it's just a phase. Everything's a phase with them. Be it long or short.**

**_This was supposed to be short!_ Aw, potatoes. So much for that plan. This is what you get for me forgetting. And I didn't reply to a single review. :c  
**

**Lithuania, why are you hardly even phased when speaking Russian, but absolutely refuse to utter a single word of Polish?**

**Oh, and I got a -0 (AKA 100%) on a worksheet in driving school! And I drew an eye! And my driving instructor is awesome and older than my dad and his nickname is Ivan B. from when he was a freshman and he says things like brouhaha.**

**My dad thinks Polish sounds like gingerbread. idek**

**Oh, and it's not narcolepsy. Good guess~ You see, I live where it gets really, insanely cold in the winter and hot in the summer, and whenever the seasons change, everyone in town gets really sleepy and it takes a few days for everyone to adjust. And though it doesn't seem to be so much like that where this story takes place, I figured that since Lithuania is unfamiliar and unused to this region of the world, he would sort of be affected. That, and he spent a bunch of time doing heavy duty cleaning and was probably a little tired. And he's not in full health if he has to go work for someone else to earn money, so... yeah.**

**I don't get it! So I'm looking at my story stats (for all of my stories) and on Monday and Tuesday is pretty normal; ten hits, nine hits. But then yesterday it's like BAM. 39 HITS. How? I didn't do anything! D : I'm happy, but confused. And then today there was 71! Thank you for reading? I guess? I'm happy, really. I just don't like not being able to solve mysteries. Yeah, I know I should just be happy and grateful, but seriously. I want to know.  
**


	10. We Wish You a Merry Christmas

A single drop of sweat fell from America's clammy forehead as he pulled his car out of reverse and slammed on the gas. The wheels slid for an instant before gaining traction and jerking the vehicle forward before the blond abruptly switched to the break. One of the passenger's gloved palms slapped against the dashboard and the other the ceiling as he braced himself while the American struggled to keep control of his car with only a steering wheel in his favor.

Lithuania gritted his teeth as they slowed to a stop. Both men slumped against their seats. After all of that rocking, they had finally done it. They were free to finish their journey to the house. "Merry Christmas," America breathed. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, then with a sniff, they were off.

Though it was early, it was already quite dark when they reached their destination. They both piled wrapped packages in their arms and were met by a group of carolers already at the door. When they finished their song, America gave each of them a hug and offered hot chocolate for all. Canada already had some made. The steaming liquid was poured into peculiar cups of paper, which the children gratefully took. Merry Christmases were wished and passed along as the carolers left and the countries fell into finishing with decorating the house.

A snowman all by his lonesome self guarded the snow-scraped front lawn, with a pair of lensless glasses that used to be America's, thick twigs that were supposed to resemble a certain Englishman's eyebrows, and, ignoring the other's protests, a rose covering his nether regions. The countries had decided that once an hour until they went to bed they would add another article to the snowman's attire. And Canada's turn was next. Lithuania wouldn't be participating until next year, because he didn't have many belongings, yet.

While Canada took his turn, the others admired their handiwork of the tree and warmed themselves by the fire. England's brows lowered. "Alfred, I think your cheeks are wind-burnt."

The blond slouched on the couch shrugged. "It'll heal."

"You should put some ointment on them."

"Nah. I don't wanna get up."

"_Alfred._"

"If you're so upset, then _you_ go get it."

England's mouth thinned into a straight line. He briskly set his mug of hot chocolate down and left for the bathroom, muttering all the way.

A frown covered the American's face as he kicked his feet up onto the new coffee table. "I didn't mean it," he said to the two accompanying him in the room.

A few minutes later, a very irked England entered, marching right up to America with a container and something on his hands.

"H-hey, what're you p—" America started warily, sitting up.

But England dug a sharp elbow into the younger country's shoulder. "Don't you dare move. If you still can't bloody take care of yourself, then by George—"

"Get off me, you crazy, old bird!"

Lithuania stumbled backward at the attack and America's thrashing. The Frenchman, however, snickered. Upon seeing he had the Baltic's attention, he took a step toward him. "Ah, Lituanie, mon cher, it appears you have some windburn, too. You two must have done most of your shopping on foot, oui?"

Lithuania's hands flew to his face and he vehemently shook his head. "N-no, I do not. It is h-heat, only warmth of the fire," he said quickly as the Frenchman continued to advance.

There was a thud, and everything seemed to halt. America, who had slumped and slid until he fell off the couch, swatted at England's offered hand. "I could have done it myself."

England, looking as if he'd won the world, tried to keep a smug smile from his face. "Yes, well . . . we all know you wouldn't have, even with the opportunity." The comment earned him a scowl unlike any other Lithuania had seen from America.

The blond stood, dusting his pants. "Oh, why don't you just go to hell," he sighed airily, taking the container and lid from a stunned Englishman. "Toris, c'mon, let's fix you up before Francis can," he called as he left the room. Lithuania ducked under France's oncoming embrace and scampered out after him.

They turned right, toward the bathroom, then America stopped. His greasy cheeks caught the few strands of light the polished floor reflected from the fire in the other room. He dropped the container and lid firmly into the Baltic's hands. "I believe you know what to do." Lithuania barely nodded before America was past him to the kitchen.

In the bathroom, he pulled his hair back and carefully applied the substance to his cheeks and nose. It was cold, and felt nice against the damaged skin.

The front door opened to reveal Canada. He pulled off his boots and tapped the snow off onto the porch before closing the door and continuing down the hall. Lithuania turned off the bathroom light and met him with a smile.

"Mattie, d'you want some hot chocolate?" America asked. There was the sound of the faucet, then mysterious clattering.

"That sounds good," his brother said. He pulled off his glasses and waved them around a little. "Fog," he told Lithuania. They both joined America in the warm kitchen, the Canadian wanting his drink, and the Baltic opting to stay out of the commotion rising in the other room.

"Gosh," Canada started, taking the hot mug from America and volleying it between hands before setting it on the counter and holding his red fingers over the warm steam. "You really don't have a lot of snow."

America shrugged. "Well, not over here."

"Why don't you go to, I don't know, Michigan or Minnesota or something for Christmas? Or Vermont?"

He clapped his hand over his heart and turned away. "Are you suggesting I be biased toward my states?" He looked back and stepped closer to Canada. "Is that how you Canadians go about things with your provinces? 'Oh, it's warm in British Columbia. I think I'll go here. Oh, there was a nice snowfall in Toronto—time to head back east! Better luck next time, BC!'"

Canada rolled his eyes. "Toronto's a city. _Ontario_'s the province."

"Yeah, but you get my point," America edged on.

"Well, actually, I _do_ visit all of my provinces, if that's what you're getting at. Do you just go on ignoring your states?"

"What? No. I've met Wyatt Earp. . . Jesse James . . . Al Capone . . . Molly Brown—lots of people in _lots_ of places. Abigail Scott Duniway, her brother . . . Babe Ruth . . ." The American's voice trailed down the hall as Lithuania quietly left the two brothers, a smile lighting his face. It was obvious both knew where the Canadian was trying to get with the conversation, and even more obvious his brother was going to continue talking until Canada either forgot or found another point to argue.

There was a small knock on the front door that caused him to pause. There were voices, then a rain of small knocks bounced off the door. Lithuania opened it, only to find another group of carolers. America came bounding in, beaming at the children that braved the cold (or the not-so-cold, as Canada put it, even though his red nose begged to differ). England trailed in with one last swat at the Frenchman following behind him.

They listened to upbeat Christmas songs, hymns, more traditional Christmas songs, as well as songs simply about the season. Once again, America offered hot chocolate at the end. Once again, he filled a dozen-or-so peculiar paper cups. Once again, the countries settled in the living room.

"That was nice," America mumbled by the fire, its warm crackling lulling all of them, though they still had to eat dinner. After a few minutes of peaceful silence, America and Canada got up to warm the premade meal.

France was studying the ends of his hair, reminding Lithuania all too much of a country he would rather have not thought about, and England was immersed in a novel that, judging by the condition of the book, he had read many times over. Lithuania wondered absently what it was about. Certainly something interesting enough to want to envelop one's self in repeatedly. But it wasn't the book that kept the Baltic's eyes on the Englishman.

The blond lifted his hand, and at first, Lithuania guessed he was going to scratch his cheek. Yet his hand didn't go all the way to his cheek. England moved it away in a rather odd motion before dropping it back to his lap. A smile played on his lips, and he breathed out a faint laugh. Lithuania's brows furrowed then rose as the country flinched, swiveled his head, and batted at the air again. He turned back to his book, but his eye's caught Lithuania's and his face reddened.

He cleared his throat. "Excuse me." The Englishman stood, straightened his clothes, and briskly exited to the hall. Lithuania heard him ascend all the way to the second floor, probably to his room. The brunette blinked, not exactly sure of what he had just witnessed.

France chuckled, and when Lithuania turned to look at him, he laughed even harder. "Do not fret, mon cher. That is completely typical of Angleterre."

If only he knew what 'that' _was_.

France got up from his seat and adjusted the stockings. "Who do you think will come this year?"

"Wh-pardon?"

"Père Noël."

"Who usually visits—o-over here?"

France shrugged. "A plump, old man with a white beard and jolly nose. Or maybe it was his laugh that was jolly. It could have been his immense fatness. Anyway!—he gorges on cookies and may or may not need glasses." He glanced at Lithuania's wide eyes. "Not nearly as delightful as Père Noël at _my_ house."

The Baltic wisely chose silence over replying to the Frenchman's narcissism. He carefully set his mug upon a coaster placed on the new coffee table. The coasters were nice, little things. Swell, like America would call them. Even the picky Frenchman approved (he had been the one to give them as an early Christmas gift), saying they went perfectly with the warm décor of the living room. To which America had replied with a laugh that he hadn't realized his living room _had_ a décor. The Frenchman could apparently tell, and was attempting to fix that.

The two brothers pulled Lithuania out of his recollections of earlier that evening with the tinkling of a small, brass bell. "Dinner," Canada announced in his soft voice. He smiled at the two countries in front of him.

"Come and get it while it's hot!" America said over his brother's shoulder. He clapped his hands and turned sharply on his heel. "Oh, and where's Artie?"

"Up the stairs," Lithuania told him.

"Artie! Arthur Kirkland!" the American boomed, thumping on the hallway wall and making picture frames shake out of their level positions.

There was a thud from above, and all looked up. Soon, the disrupted Englishman was following them into the kitchen. They sat around a table covered with steaming dinner rolls, corned beef, very mucky-looking spinach, though it was rich in color, and fruit salad with fresh whipping cream mixed in, made special by the next-door neighbor.

All of the light was coming from candles lining the counter space and a centerpiece on the table. America had told Lithuania that they would've eaten in the dining room, under his old, candlelit chandelier, but because of the incident that took place on Thanksgiving and the fact that he hadn't gotten around to fixing it, the room was still unusable. Not to mention his antique chandelier was diagnosed as dead. France had commented that inanimate objects were dead to begin with, which America returned that if it _had_ been living it would now be dead.

Similar to Thanksgiving, they all joined hands, but instead of taking turns with saying what they were thankful for, America said a prayer, and they dug in. For a moment, Lithuania wondered what _his_ "brothers" were doing. If they were together and enjoying a meal, possibly wishing he was there to join them. Or were they spending Christmas separately? Were they even celebrating? He took another bite of his corned beef and silently wished them a merry Christmas before pushing the thoughts away. It didn't matter how much he thought about it. He had his own Christmas to attend.

"_Happy_ Christmas. It's _Happy_ Christmas. Who the bloody hell taught you _merry_?"

America shrugged, leading to his forkful of fruit salad falling down the front of his Christmas sweater.

England rolled his eyes and got up to wet a napkin. "Wonderful motor skills, I see you've neglected to improve."

America took the napkin and rubbed at the whipped cream. "If they're so wonderful, why would they need improving?"

"D-don't rub—" England cut himself off and sighed as one would when dealing with a child they were about fed up with. "It was sarcasm and you know it. Now go upstairs and change before you ruin that sweater any more than you already have."

"S'fine, it'll come ou—"

"Would you rather I dig out a bib from that dusty closet of junk you have?"

A frown flashed across the American's face. He pushed his chair back and excused himself from the table.

"I did not knit that purely to watch you soil it!" England called before sitting down with a huff. "That boy," he muttered under his breath.

France was nearly glowing with amusement. His eyebrows were arched high, and his smile was growing behind his hands futilely trying to hide it. "The mystery is solved!" he finally burst, with a loud, drawn-out chuckle.

England's eyes darted left and right, as if there might be an answer to _this_ man's mystery. "What are you talking about, Frog?"

"I now know why Amérique and Matthieu look like such . . . such _ninnies_, you would say?"

England leaned forward. "Are you calling my knitting skills _poor_?"

"No, no. _No_!" The Frenchman shook his head vigorously. "Your knitting is fine. It's your style that is lacking. You wouldn't know what fashion was, even if it hit you hard in the face. And that is terribly _sad_, Angleterre. Worse than sad! Almost like a tragic love story. Oh—you make me want to weep tears of pity!" He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.

"Oh, boohoo," England growled. "Falling to pieces over romantic things. But what else could I expect? You French _live_ for fanciful, frivolous things, don't you?"

"Oui, I suppose you could say that. And delicious food and wine."

Lithuania glanced at Canada, who was very red in the face, and looked as if he felt as out of place as he was.

"I-I sort of like my sweater," the Canadian mumbled.

France's eyes widened. "Look! Did you see?" he exclaimed, flapping his handkerchief at England, then turning it to Canada. "My poor Matthieu! My darling boy! Look what you're doing to him! His taste in fashion is diminishing all because of you!"

"It's not about what it looks like," Canada said quickly, "The color—it's nice for winter. The material's a little scratchy, but I like it because it was made for _me_. Every stitch—or whatever it's called with knitting—was . . . put together with me in mind. And I find that kinda, um, flattering." They watched as his face became redder and redder. He slouched in his chair, apparently trying to hide himself from the attention. "Thank you, Arthur," he managed to sort of squeak out.

"You see?" England said, his face slightly flushed at the compliment. "Matthew has grown into a well-rounded young man, thanks to me. He's not some shallow, arrogant fool, like yo—"

But the Frenchman wasn't listening. After staring at the Canadian for a short moment, he rushed from his chair to the country's side. "Oh, Matthieu!" he cried out, smothering Canada in a hug and showering his head with kisses. "You are such a wonderful—I knew you took after me. Beautiful words blossoming from your lips—how sweet!"

"F-Francis, please! H-hey, get off! I'm not a little kid anymore! This is—"

"Oh, hush. Affection is for anyone and everyone! And best of all, it is free, excluding prostitutes!"

England slapped his hands on the tabletop. The dishes rattled, and the Frenchman quieted. "We will not have such language at this table! _Especially_ not on Christmas."

America came bounding in, in a typical, white, button-down shirt. "Okay. All better." He sat down and took a bite of his corned beef, then grimaced. "It's cold. Time for cookies." He started to clear the table, but England swatted his hand and told him that just because he was done, didn't mean everyone else was. "Fine, then _Toris_ and I will indulge in cookies, and you guys have dish duty."

"M-me?"

"Yep!"

"It-it does not seem very healthy to eat cookies instead of dinner . . ."

"There're gingerbread cookies. Those have ginger, which is healthy, don't they?"

Before Lithuania could answer, the American was in the living room. He glanced at the three at the table. They didn't appear very pleased, but . . .

When he found America, the fellow already had his hand in a jar of cookies. He looked up and patted the seat next to him on the couch. The Baltic obediently sat.

"We have to save the nicest ones for Santa," America told him. He pointed to a small plate with a hand-painted Christmas tree on it. "They go on there, and then we fill him up a mug of milk. Milk and cookies."

Lithuania inspected a gingerbread man.

"You can eat that one," America said. "See? Its buttons aren't straight."

He pulled another from the jar. "This one looks nice."

"Yeah, but one eye is bigger than the other."

"H-how about this one?"

"Sure! Oh. No. The edge is slightly burned. There, around that foot."

They went through the jar and carefully laid the cookies in rows according to their appearance. Lithuania would have never suspected America to be so particular about selecting a few cookies to give to the man France had spoken of. Then again, he probably wasn't as bad as the Frenchman said. Even so, if the man was going to give presents to millions of people and they all gave him milk and cookies, would he remember the cookies America gave him?

That didn't seem to concern the American as they moved on to sugar cookies. By the time the others joined them, the plate was on the mantel above the fireplace and covered with the hand-picked goodies.

"Well, it seems to be getting late," England sighed, flicking his wrist into sight then peering at his watch. "Mmm, somewhat."

"PJ time?" America asked, looking up from his headless gingerbread cookie.

"About. Ah, we might as well."

"Great!" America hopped up and led the way as the blonds hurried up the stairs.

Lithuania, standing in the living room, tried to figure what this was all about. PJ? P . . . J. Wasn't that what America also called pajamas? So they were getting ready for bed? He checked the clock in the kitchen; it read only half past seven! Though . . . Canada had been right. The weeks leading up to Christmas had been _much_ more tiring than the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving. The Baltic wasn't sure how America was still moving. In fact, they all had big bags under their eyes.

He went to his own room, thinking it silly to feel a tad left out, because his room was on the first floor. Strangely, he was the first one to be in his pajamas, have his teeth brushed, hair combed, and be back in the living room. The wood was cold under his bare feet, and the rug was still drying in the cellar from when he last washed it, leaving the whole living room bare. He tiptoed to the chair nearest the fireplace and curled up, pulling his feet under him. For a moment the Baltic resented America's laid-back manner; the rattling windowpanes now also let in drafts that were making him shiver in spite of being so close to the source of warmth.

Faint sounds of ruckus traveled down the stairs, through the hall, and mingled with the crackling of the fire. _They really are a family of brothers,_ Lithuania thought as he watched firelight dance and refract against the ornaments on the tree, making colors over the warm orange already cast on the walls. _Very close brothers._ He felt like a black sheep, almost. Or maybe a brunette sheep. Part of his mind told him to march right up those stairs and see what they were doing, but another part was cozy and didn't want to interrupt any fun they were having.

When they came down, France, Canada and America seated themselves on the couch and England moved a chair in front of the Christmas tree. Then he dropped to his hands and knees with a plug-in in hand, muttering a little. "Oh—there it is!"

Suddenly, little balls of light illuminated all over the tree, and for a moment the five were content simply admiring its brilliance. England sat and reached down to pick up a book sitting on top of one of the presents. This was obviously a tradition. But America had said England was not always here for Christmas; he had colonies, still. Lithuania watched as the Englishman crossed his legs, cleared his throat, and glanced at everyone in the room.

"Are we ready?"

Canada slumped further into the couch, and America grabbed a pillow. France turned, elbow resting on the back of the couch, head resting on fingers, and studied the view out a window. England took this as an answer and started:

"T'was the night before Christmas, when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse . . ."

It was a sweet poem, the Baltic thought. It was heartwarming. America and Canada looked very childish the way they were nestled into the couch and watching the Christmas tree. By the end, even though it had been a short poem, both had their eyes closed.

"It appears they've said their own goodnights, Angleterre."

"Well . . . wake them up. It will be cold down here after I put out the fire."

The Frenchman nodded, and shook America first, since he was closer. Though it ended with Canada opening his eyes.

"Bedtime?"

"Oui. Bonne nuit."

"Bonne nuit," the Canadian replied softly. He stood, stretched a little, and headed for the stairs.

At the noise, America looked up. "Oh, bedtime?"

"Oui. Bonne nuit," France repeated.

"Bon _what_?"

"_Goodnight_."

"Yeah, 'night."

The Frenchman rose, and America followed him out. Fire out, England went for the stairs, too. But he paused, first, to turn around. "Happy Christmas, Toris."

Lithuania's eyes widened. What was he supposed to say? 'Happy' like England or 'merry' like America? But by the time he decided, the Englishman was gone.

It was darker in the lonely room; the tree's glow didn't reach as far as the fire had. Lithuania ran a hand through his hair, realizing his fingers were much colder than his head. He leaned forward and slid his legs out from under him. One of them was tingling a little, and when he stepped on the cold floor, it tickled painfully. Lithuania continued to his room. It would wake up. When he turned the hall corner cold darkness met him. And there was . . .

No! There wasn't. There was nothing there. Nothing but the dark. Shadows were nonexistent. Simply darkness. And simple darkness was nothing to be afraid of.

Lithuania sucked in a silent breath and hurried to his room anyway. The curtains rustled soundlessly as he quickly swung his door closed so it wouldn't squeak. He held it right before it bumped into the doorjamb, then quietly clicked it shut.

Pale light filtered into his room from the lamp pole by the sidewalk. Again, the man was there. The one he had seen almost every night for a month. Always alone and pacing to keep warm. He was out rather early this night, and Lithuania wasn't sure why. But the answer was soon made obvious when a short, blonde woman came scampering down the walk to meet him. She slid across a patch of ice, arms swinging in frantic circles, but he caught her. Their heads tipped back, and Lithuania could almost hear their laughter through the glass. The man pulled something out of his pocket—it looked to be a little, wrapped box with a bow—and handed it to the woman. She bounced up and down, bushy hair dancing, and then they started walking toward the city.

But why were they going out on Christmas? What about Santa? Would he still give them presents if they weren't home and asleep? Lithuania got the feeling that they didn't care much for gifts from Santa Claus. Then a thought crossed his mind: Why wasn't America out with a woman? Or France or England or Canada? Though it wouldn't be anything serious, seeing as it was next to impossible to have a serious romantic relationship with a human, why weren't they giving little gifts and taking someone to dinner? Lithuania saw America talking to young women all the time, and everyone knew France was nearly always willing for "a good time" as America would say.

Maybe the couple didn't have a family to spend the holiday with. Maybe they didn't believe Santa would come, and were oblivious to the fact that if they just stayed home and were good, he _would_ visit.

He went to his bed and huddled under the blankets. Why should he care about strangers and their doings? It was pointless, unless he wanted to make friends. Which he didn't. He was content with the ones he had. Lithuania smiled at that thought. It was actually the truth. He brought the blankets over his cold nose. He was content and sleepy on the eve of Christmas, stomach full of hot chocolate and mind satisfied with being dry, safe, and warm. The Baltic closed his eyes. Maybe _happy_ was a better word. Just maybe.

He awoke with a start, cold sweat making him shiver. There _was_ something in the dark. And it was moving. Lithuania squeezed his eyes shut. No, everything was fine. It had to be. This was America's house, after all. If something was there, America would come running with his baseball bat.

But America was probably fast asleep! He hadn't even made it through the whole story. He was probably "sleeping like a log". Yet something had to be done.

Lithuania reach for his robe with a shaky hand. It was thin, and didn't provide much warmth; he left his blankets, because taking one could debilitate him if he had to move quickly. He felt for his slippers, but to no avail. Bare feet had _some_ advantage, he assured himself.

They didn't. They stuck to the wood floor and made little, strange noises as he crept down the hall. It would be pointless to turn back, though. So he grabbed the neck of the nearest vase and proceeded to the living room, where the sounds were coming from. It was dark, but he could hear breathing. Outside the window, the clouds were a purplish blue, catching all of the light the snow reflected from the city. Once his eyes adjusted to the tiny amount of light filtering in, he could see the outline of a body.

Could . . . could it be Santa? But the tree wasn't lit. Lithuania _knew_ he had been the last one to leave the living room. And knew the tree had been lit! There was no possible way he imagined it. This couldn't be Santa.

Lithuania's brow furrowed and he lifted the vase. He swiftly made his advance on the unknowing body, grabbing one of its wrists and twisting it behind its back. "Who are you?" he demanded softly, so as not to wake the others.

"Whoa! Toris?"

Lithuania jumped back, blood cold and heart making him struggle to breathe. "M-mi—Alfred?"

"Yeah. Shoot, you scared me!"

"I-hh—I apologize. I th-thought someone was trying to . . . to—"

"Break in?"

Lithuania nodded before realizing he probably couldn't see. "Y-yes. Break in."

There was some rustling, then the tree lit up again and blinded Lithuania for a second. "That's better," America whispered. "You see, I forgot my turn earlier, so I thought I should make up for it before Santa came. But I couldn't find what I was looking for. I wondered if it was on the tree, but when I checked, I tripped over the cord!"

"Oh." That . . . The turn with the snowman. That made sense. Lithuania set the vase on the coffee table. "Um. Did you find what you were looking for?"

America shook his head. "Naw. But it's fine. I probably just lost it, so it'll turn up."

The Baltic didn't even want to try to find the logic in that answer at such an hour. "Maybe next year?"

"Yeah." America smiled. He opened his mouth to say something else, but a yawn quickly took over. "Yikes. I'm beat. Going to bed?"

"In . . . I will in a bit."

"G'night, Toris. And Merry Christmas."

"Pleasant dreams—and Merry Christmas to you as well."

America was up and gone.

The Baltic's shaky sigh filled the still air. He lowered to his knees and propped an elbow next to the vase on the coffee table. There was nothing to be afraid of. Yet for weeks, he spent every night questioning the darkness. There was nothing to be afraid of. It was fine. Safety was to be only an afterthought, at America's; another thing to not be bothered about, because it was as familiar as hearing the squeak on the second step up the stairs.

Lithuania sucked in a breath through his nose. He stood and smoothed his pajama bottoms with his clammy hands. He would be alright. That's how it always ended up, even in the worst situations. Granted, "alright" was a very relative thing, seeing his situations varied greatly. Sometimes being on the verge of unconsciousness but still being able to make it to cover on a battlefield was being alright; other times curling up under a tree, enjoying the summer breeze and refreshing his sanity after a long day of listening to argument after heated argument in his government buildings was being alright.

But this wasn't the time to think about surviving over the years. It was almost the end of Christmas Eve, and he really needed to get to bed. He could barely imagine what would happen if Santa came and found him wide awake in the living room at such an hour.

Though imagining wasn't necessary as something landed on the roof and there was a rustling in the chimney. Lithuania fled to the other side of the living room and was wondering if he could make it to his room, but he could hear boots already touch down.

"Brrrr!" the hunched figure quietly exclaimed. He scuttled out of the fireplace and straightened.

"F-_Finland_?"

The blond blinked. "Oh! Lithuania! I almost forgot you were staying here!" He dropped his giant sack by his feet and offered a grin that lit up his soot-smeared face. Dressed in his Santa Claus attire, Lithuania noticed for the first time just how jolly the little, Nordic country really looked.

"B-w—I thought a different man gave presents, here. There was the story about him and his dimples and beard as white as snow. He was also called, um, St. Nick?"

Finland nodded. "Reindeer troubles. I think it was Donner. He is running a little late, and asked if I could cover the East Coast! I told him that of course I would—no good child ought to go without a present tonight! And no adult, either." He laughed, then quickly covered his mouth. "Oops. The others are sleeping, aren't they? Which is what _you_ should be doing, too!" he said, pointing accusingly at the Baltic with a cookie.

Lithuania felt his face heat up. "I-I apologize, I—"

"It's fine! I am just playing. You will still get presents, so don't worry. Actually, you and America have been very good the past few months."

"Have we?" Memories of the speakeasy and all the times he'd injured the American filled his head.

"Yes! You played with those boys. Did you know that they threw that baseball away because they were bullying the little one? If you and America hadn't have come, they probably would not all be friends, now. And that little girl—she was returned safe and happy to her mother because of you two."

Lithuania smiled. "It took a very long time to find her home in that storm. America didn't say he knew the exact building she was talking about until we came back here."

"To think a flag wrapped around its pole resembles the swirling column outside the barber shops!" Finland chucked softly. He downed the contents of the mug, then bent over his bundle. "Let's see . . . Alfred F Jones." he pulled a decorated box from the sack and situated it under the tree. "Arthur Kirkland . . . another Alfred, not Jones . . . Hm. Oh—Matthew's, one for Francis—hehe." Lithuania watched with wide eyes as he dropped a piece of coal into France's stocking. "Do not fret. He still gets a gift. It's just a . . . I suppose I would call it a warning. And here is your present." He patted the top of the last box he set under the tree. "And no peeking! Or else I will put coal in your stocking, too!"

"I will not," the Baltic assured.

Finland grinned. "Good. I'll finish filling these, then I best be off."

"I understand. I will not keep you from your work. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Lithuania. And I hope you have a _truly_ wonderful Christmas."

"I . . ." He could imagine the morning—America pouncing onto his bed hours before breakfast, and the others filing groggily down the stairs. Eggnog, cookies, and fresh-fallen snow. There would be laughter and bantering, and even through any scowls or glares, it would be obvious they were still fond of each other. Once everyone was awake the family would be reunited for one more day. The tree seemed brighter than it had before. Lithuania smiled. "I have a feeling that I will."

* * *

AN;;

Is the end too fast?

I think it is.

Bleh.

I am disappointed with this whole chapter. I think it's _extremely_ boring. But... I wanted to do a Christmas chapter. :/

Hummmmmumumumm. Oh yeah. About Irina. All the little kids I've met stutter. I don't know why, but my guess is that their brains moves faster than they know how to move their mouths? I... don't know. But I write what I know (and make up what I don't ohnohowbad).

And Hazins. Are you psychic? You kind of asked all the questions I was going to talk about xD

So about the story. I want it to be the full decade (I actually have already the last chapter in my head), but there's, like, already nine chapters or something, and it's only been a few months. I'm not gonna make it super boring and only hit the holidays or he-_uge_ events, but I want to get some of them in. And there was kind of a lot of stuff happening in the twenties. I don't know what's considered an acceptable length for a story. I've seen some with over forty chapters, and others with only two. But if I make this forty chapters, that seems a wee bit intimidating. I know I wouldn't dive into a forty-some-odd-chapter story online. Because I'm horrible and judgmental and just don't have patience or an attention span that could ever be called reasonable. So I don't know what to do about that.

Okay, I don't feel like telling you guys is right, because it takes away from some aspect of the story, whether it be surprise or entertainment or whatever. So Russia MIGHT make an appearance.

But bringing up Russia, there are some dilemmas I'm met with. Like.. in the comic Russia takes Lithuania away because of the GD, so I'm guessing that happens in 1929. _**But Lithuania was still independent in 1929, wasn't he?**_ I haven't read anything that says otherwise. And I find it confusing. Sure, I can make up my own reasons, but even though this is fanfiction, I don't want to totally alter the story. Blaaaar.

TV tropes~ Yaaay! Actually, I had no idea what that was. I probably seem like a complete internet noob or something, and I probably am and just don't know it. But thank you, you guys! I'm so happy!

Elizabeth-Ohhhh dear. I calculated all the pages as of when you reviewed, and that was, like, sixty or something pages on my computer. I'm so sorry you went through that much ink. D : Even if you wanted to. I'm happy and flattered and feel really guilty. And congratulations for coming out of depression~ My friends are horrible and inconsiderate and I can't imagine wanting to be friends with anyone else. I hope it's supposed to be like that...

jeesh. I use and a lot. My grammar is horrible when I type nonstory stuff.

Regina! You are correct~! Seeing as he had to deal with _three_ _wars_ in a short period of time, it seemed fitting.

Irinia is just a little girl, StarShapedCookies. Nothing special~

Thank you, InsaneNicEly. You're so nice! I really, really, _really_ don't think Lithuania and France would ever get along very well. C-|

Rachel;; My friend has insomnia only during the school year. That just kinda reminded my of her~ Ohmygosh. I hope America getting hit in the head doesn't become, like, one of those things. Ahhh I don't know what they're called-those-those _things_. Truthfully? I don't know why it's happened so many times. aha. It just seems to keep happening.

OK. I'll reply to everyone else later. There's another blasted storm outside and Con Air is on TV and my sister is bribing me with cake.

lkasdjflsajfauf[q'

I FORGOT TO SAY WHAT I MEANT TO SAY ABOUT THIS CHAPTER.

I swear. The previous chapter is haunting me. Okay. I find it funny that when Lithuania can't think of the right words, America suggests "break in". Because first of all, an intruder wouldn't be breaking in if they're already in the living room. And second, it shows just how startled they both were. lql (hehehe tumblr). ayou know what, maybe my sense of humor is just twisted and obscure.

Oh, and originally, both Santa and Finland were going to come because of some confusion, but I decided I didn't want to write that. Sorry. You can imagine that happened, if you want. But it seemed long as it was (on openoffice (that's what I use) the story is a little more than 8 pages single-spaced).

Okay, that's it.


	11. Love and Hearts

He trudged up beside the blond and rested a hand above his brow, though the snow below was brighter than the soft light coming from the clouded sky. The white expanse flanking them was flawless, snow twinkling infinitely on even through the gaps between bare, slumbering trees. In front of them, however, footprints, mounds, and marks of all kinds littered the park.

America let out a happy breath and placed his fists on his hips, squinting in a very pleased way at their snow town. He called it Washington D.C. Junior, seeing as the placement of its buildings greatly resembled the ones in the city they were modeled after.

But now was not the time to become sidetracked. Lithuania's mitten was missing, and the sun was starting it's trek to the horizon. America had lent his gloves to him, saying he had to be a good host, though the cold was now definitely getting to him.

They started with picking through the outskirts of the town and slowly spiraled toward the middle.

"Toris, this is it, right?" America called.

Lithuania genlty set a clump of snow acting as a roof back onto a building and tiptoed through the uneven streets in his clunky snowboots. They were an old pair of America's and were a bit too big. So it was no surprise to the Lithuanian when the toe of one boot got caught in a hole they forgot to fill causing him to fall forward with a thump. America gave a shout, then a louder shout and told him not to move. Lithuania could hear him dancing though the blocks.

"I'm sorry," he said, chancing a look in America's direction. He could feel the hours of cold, patient work under his body, smothered beyond repair.

"Don't you worry," the blond replied, batting a hand as he knelt next to an unrealistically large pile of snow by the fallen country's elbow. "Those little snow people were away anyway. Besides, at least you didn't hit this fella, here." He gave Lithuania a grin as he jabbed a red thumb toward the mound. "See, this is the White House. And if you destroyed it, that would be a pretty serious terrorist act."

Lithuania raised his eyebrows and gingerly pushed its roof into place.

"This is it, right?" the blond repeated, holding up a woolen mitten.

"Yes, that is it." He slowly lifted himself into a sitting position and took the article from America's offering grasp.

"Swell! Now let's get outta here," America said, jumping to his feet. "We're behind schedule—if we don't hurry, everyone's gonna close up shop before we can find proper gifts!"

"G-gifts?" Lithuania asked, standing and brushing the town off his front.

" . . . For the party? Rememb—Aw, applesauce! I forgot to tell you. Sorry, pal. But there's a party tonight."

The Baltic felt his insides dropping in temperature, and it wasn't from his most recent blunder. "A party."

America edged his hat up and scratched his forehead. "What's eating you? It's just a party."

Lithuania focused on making it safely to the city limits before responding. Another party. With drugs and alcohol and young women that weren't loyal to their partners, and most definitely the same for young men. "I . . . will it be different than before?"

"Of course! There'll be a lot more dames, since they get free drinks, tonight. And we're going to pass around Valentine's Day gifts. And everyone will look like humans. I think. There was a costume party last year—lotsa love bugs and cupids—so I'm not really sure. I forgot to ask that part. But it won't matter much. Not everyone dresses up, so we won't look like a couple of killjoys or anything of that sort." America shrugged as he grabbed the sled's rope.

Lithuania closed his eyes and pinched his nose as they made their way to the sidewalk. _Liaukis_._ You are not helping anything_. He didn't need to act out. He just had to tell the blond that he did not want to attend. America would listen. But would it be rude? Inconsiderate, it seemed. Lithuania frowned. Not inconsiderate. He was considering America.

"Hey, buddy. Really, what's got you all balled up?" America paused and dropped his hands to his sides.

"I-uh—"

"The air's fresh with love, the sun is shining on the other side of those clouds, and the neighbor lady's son is selling cupcakes for half-price at the shop just down the block! So why in the _world_ aren't you smiling?"

"U-um, I . . . " No. America was right. A party could actually be fun. If he ignored all the law-breaking and—

Who was he trying to deceive? Certainly, it couldn't be himself. He knew better. He wasn't like a young adult going through a rebellious streak, convinced that they weren't going to be the one to get bogged down, chewed up, and spat back out by the city. He wasn't going to be hypnotized by the dazzling lights that would mingle with the stars come nightfall. He had been young, once. He had thought he would succeed. But pretending to be invincible was foolish—thinking it would last for more than a moment, a mistake.

Living from year to year, day to day, like a normal individual was enjoyable, yes, but made it much harder to spot impending dangers. Thinking back through hundreds of years, he knew his past was riddled with errors, ranging from personal to continental.

America was still young, however, with hardly a century-and-a-half of experience. Though, as far as Lithuania knew, he had not yet failed, it did not mean things would continue in such a fashion. And with the chance that they could in mind, for it seemed a little early to tell, it did not excuse the fact that the blond would still have personal regrets, and probably already did. Everyone had regrets, didn't they? Or could America really be such a wonderful place that—

". . . Toris?"

Lithuania broke from his trance-like ponderings and whipped his head around to face America.

The blond laughed. "Welcome back to Earth, pal. But while you were gone, I was thinking. And I think I get it."

"Y-you do?" Relief warmed his tingling fingertips.

"Yeah. I do. You don't wanna go to the party."

Lithuania nodded vigorously. "Yes, I don't. I-I mean—yes, that is right. No, I do not."

"Because you already _have_ a special someone."

He blinked. "W-wh . . . _pardon?_"

America whooped, a large cloud of fog forming around his head. He slapped Lithuania on the back and laughed, then shook his numbing fingers. "Ouch. Anyway, I knew it! Well, I didn't really, but I had a notion. I mean, at first I was a little worried, because you _are_ sort of an Ethel, and you don't seem the least bit interested in girls—I was hoping it was just 'cause you're European and all, and I haven't met any European fellas that'll go right up to a girl and flirt with her besides Francis . . . but then again he's _France_, and flirts with everyone. And, um. That's as far as I got." He shrugged.

"I do not—do not think I understand what you are inferring."

"For a minute there I thought you were batting for the other team."

Lithuania shook his head.

"Um." America was gesturing at the air, trying to grasp the words to form the explanation he was searching for. "That you . . . like men."

"I like plenty of men."

The blond arched an eyebrow. "Ro . . ._ mantically_?"

Lithuania's eyes slowly widened as he realized what America was saying, and what he had said. "No, I, um, _friends_."

"So you do have a girl."

He wasn't sure how America made the connection. But Belarus came to mind, and he tried to stay calm while he reddened from his ears to his nose, hoping it wouldn't be conspicuous, since he was already slightly red with cold.

America's face broke into a grin. "And who might _she_ be?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

The brunette closed his eyes as he painfully drowned in burning embarrassment. "Sh-she is in Europe—"

"Aw, that's too bad. Why don't you ever write her letters? Unless you do in secret." America nudged him with his elbow.

Lithuania shook his head. "It is . . . difficult. We, um . . . " _Dievas so help me, why is this discussion taking place?_ "We were—had a union, and she and I were m-m—"

America's eyebrows shot up, and it was his turn for his eyes to widen. "You mean you've already walked the middle aisle?"

"T-taip, more than once—but not with her, I . . ." He shook his head harder. Why was it so difficult to say? Why did he have to stumble over his words like such a—

"Wait, you were married before, too? How many wives do you _have_? Is that normal where you're from? Because I thought—"

"No, no, no, no, no, no, _no_. No, I-I am not—not married at the moment. Right now. I have not been for a long time. Though it was a short time ago. I . . . marriage is not a regular thing for me."

"So who were you first married to?"

"Felik—Poland," he replied without thinking. He realized an instant too late that of course America would jump to conclusions.

"So you _do_ swing for the other side? And yet you were married to a—"

"M-Mi—Alfred, no, please, I . . . you are making it sound different than it is. Was. Y-you are diverging from the—"

"Wait, so was it just one of those alliances?"

"We became a commonwealth."

"And what about the dame? Is he jealous you married her?"

Lithuania paused. Such a thought had never occurred to him. It wasn't as if he and Belarus had essentially _wanted_ to be wed. Maybe under disparate circumstances. But Poland had known that, right? The brunette pulled his sliding hat back over his ears. Then suddenly everything snapped into place with such clarity, he felt giddy.

America's brows knitted as he steadied his friend. "Maybe we should sort this out at home."

Lithuania nodded, though he could already see that the topic would not be brought up again. At least not for a while. He picked up the rope America had dropped, and followed the tall country straight through the city to his house.

The cupcakes and gifts that wouldn't be bought all looked so lovely in the shop windows as they passed by.

When they reached the house, America went straight to firing up the stove and heating water in the range boiler for their hands. Then hot chocolate.

Lithuania was sweating, though, even as he took their winter gear to the cool cellar so he could hang and dry it all. Stuck in the strange medium where his extremities were next to freezing, yet everything else was burning from excursion. He took some anyway, simply to help warm his fingers.

"So," America started.

He sighed. The pit in his stomach told him he had been wrong. America could be very persistent at times. The Baltic started to understand that the blond opted for history from the source, not university books and newspapers. "Yes?"

"You married Poland, and then you married this girl? Did you, you know, divorce first?"

Lithuania leaned forward wearily. So it was back to Poland. "We were married hundreds of years ago. We were not much more than two children. It . . . was . . . broken up. Toward the—" Lithuania dropped his eyes to the sugary foam swirling together into a blanket over the hot chocolate beneath it. "Toward the end . . . the partitions. I worked for Russia un-until just recently."

"So you didn't want to divorce?"

"No, I . . . I do not know."

America raised his eyebrows, forming a very skeptical look he often focused on other people when it was obvious they were lying. Lithuania had seen it dozens of times. The pit in his stomach grew into nausea, so he moved the hot chocolate to the counter. "And about the dame?"

Lithuania sank to his seat. "She is Russia's young-younger sister."

Silence filled the room. He watched America thoughtfully swish the contents of his cup around for a full, painful minute.

"So you married Russia's younger sister."

"He wanted it."

"But you carry a torch for her?"

"I—pardon?"

"You like her. Romantically."

"Y-yes."

"Well, then her brother can't be that bad of a guy, right?"

"He is insane," Lithuania replied flatly. He was not about to thank the Russian for helping him with his romantic problems. Especially since they were for tactical advantage. Why else would he be allowed to do that? Russia was very protective of his sisters. And things he was protective of never stayed out of his grasp for long.

"Wh . . . _really_?"

"Mentally unstable." The Baltic could remember watching him break. But he would spare these recollections. Even from his closest friend.

"Why aren't you married _now_?"

He bowed his head, running fingers through his hair. "_Lietuvos–Baltarusijos Tarybinė Socialistinė Respublika. _That is what we were called. Within months, the government dissolved. Neither of us really wanted it. She didn't want it. She . . . thought of it as her annexation. She is tired of me, I think." His lungs felt like they were caving along with his hope. He rested his forehead on his palms and studied the table. "Poland . . . he and Russia were waging war with each other. We were in between. We were under control. Poland overtook the capital_–my_ capital, originally_–_then hers. And . . . more war."

"Oh . . ."

"He will not give it back."

"Couldja repeat tha_–_"

Lithuania looked up. America was doing this on purpose, he could see it in his expression! His cheeks were heated with agitation, but he didn't have the heart to glare."_He will not give it back._"

"Come again?"

He squeezed his eyes shut and slammed a fist on the table and raised his voice. "Poland stole my capital!" He crumpled in his chair, head slowly falling to the table. "_Tu avigalvi!_" he shouted, slapping the tabletop with more force. His hand balled up as he calmed himself. This was ridiculous. unacceptable. It left him feeling empty. Yet so much _better_.

But the pain, the pain was so unbearable at times. To have a heart but not completely your own. Rending itself and mending itself. Always beating. The sound foreign yet familiar from centuries of listening to the idle rhythm.

If Poland took it out of jealousy, he was wretched. More self-centered than the Baltic had always assumed. He was a child at mind, just like the Russian. But instead of trying to force what he wanted into his reach, he took what he wanted and broke what he couldn't have.

Lithuania was broken.

"All I wanted was freedom," he managed to get out.

He heard America's chair scrape across the floor. A hand on his back. Lithuania peered up, trying not to look as hopelessly lost as he felt.

"Then you came to the right place." The corners of his mouth drew up into a solemn smile. "Welcome to the Land of the Free."

* * *

**AN;;**

**And the hero strikes again!**

**Hey, guys, this is the first time I wrote the majority of a chapter in the document thingy here. Mostly because I got a laptop as a reeeeeaaaally early Christmas present (yay~!), meaning I have nothing besides notepad, and partly because I wanted to see what it's like.**

**So far it's pretty cool. My open office on the other computer didn't have a dictionary, so I was relying heavily on my spelling skills. For some reason I constantly spell living room wrong, though just now I didn't because I don't know why. My brain and I harbor a love/hate relationship. And for some reason it's more of a meh/extremehate relationship when I'm writing.**

**It kinda sucks.**

**A lot.**

**SORT OF LIKE HOW MY PARENTS KEEP COMING DOWNSTAIRS WHILE I'M TRYING TO WRITE MY AUTHOR'S NOTE AND I KEEP ACCIDENTALLY CLOSING THIS TAB AND HAVING TO START OVER FROM "FOR SOME REASON" A BAJILLION TIMES. Though I guess it's not really their fault. There's a rule that I'm not supposed to be computering at bedtime. It's a few hours after bedtime so I'm obliterating that rule as I type this...**

**Anyway, I hope you guys understand that no, America and Lithuania aren't super amazing snow sculptors. _Mounds_ does not describe a quality anything. Maybe a quality candy bar, but that would be based on opinion. For example, I find coconut to taste so horrible it makes me gag, therefore I do not find the candy bar to be quality. Because I think part of the quality would be the taste.**

**But I'm going off on a tangent aaaahhhh.**

**Guys. I'm a sophomore. It's amazing. Bye bye fresh meat, hello squashmore. And I'm in the band. Pure. Awesomeness. And I have my permit. Scary awesomeness.**

**Enough about me! D :**

**So basically, my plan was to squish three days into one chapter. Not so hard, right? Start on the 14th, end on the 16th, hilarity and possible fluff ensuing like usual.**

**Not so much.**

**So I'm writing, writing, writing then-**

**brain: HEY. YOU. YEAH, YOU. WTF DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? HUH? THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE VALENTINE'S DAY. WHOEVER HEARD OF ANYTHING GOOD HAPPENING ON VALENTINE'S DAY (besides your parents getting married (true story))?**

**me: ... So what do you suggest?**

**brain: Just follow my lead~**

**me: /follows**

**me: What in the world just happened to my cute-fluff story. You killed it. I hate you.**

**brain: Nah, you love me and you know it. Now get this - - it's Valentine's Day. He deals with love. Valentine's Day has hearts, right? Guess who is dealing with his heart? Eeeh? So whaddaya think? Good stuff, right?**

**me: Oh my gosh I hate you less. This is why you're (usually) in charge. So it's love and hearts and angst-type stuff at the same time. And how did you ever come to the conclusion Poland was jealous? I seriously did a double-take when I typed that.**

**brain: Miracles, bby. B]**

**Basically how it all went down.**

**No, they never made it to the party.**

**And I feel like a troll or horrible person or something. Because I wasn't actually planning on ever sharing what they got for Christmas.**

**: x ...Sorry.**

**Oh, and apparently using expletives in Lithuanian is not like using them in English. Well, I don't know about _now_. But definitely back then. It's hard to explain, and this note is already pretty long-winded.**

**But he's pretty much saying "You blockhead!"**

**Or at least that's the best I understand it.**


	12. Slip

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, buddy! I don't want you to miss it!" America bellowed from the living room.

The brunette jumped and nearly scalded his hand as the soup splashed rapidly into the cup. "I-I am coming," he called back, setting both the cup and pot down to clean his mess. For being "under the weather" the American definitely still had his voice.

It would be the first full day the blond would be home in a long time; a rather rocky winter had led to a very busy spring. It had been obvious America was trying to hide it from him, but Lithuania knew where to find the newspapers. Mine disasters, murders, new companies - there had even been business he'd had to attend across the ocean, whether out of good nature or obedience.

Lithuania stirred the contents with a spoon to cool it a little as he made his way to the blond, who was curled up on the couch in his pajammas with layers of blankets covering him even though outside the snow had thawed long ago. He handed him the cup, which seemed very unconventional for being a way to eat soup, but America looked extremely pleased.

It seemed the amount of time it took for him to recuperate was much smaller compared to other nations, and for that Lithuania was glad. It had been unnerving enough to see him as exhausted as he was during the Christmas season, but to have him stagger in around midnight, kicking off his shoes and struggling to pull off his tie with fingers limp from lack of energy . . . Lithuania sat in the chair that had inadvertently become "his" over the months. It seemed almost unbelieveable that America could go from needing assisstance to his room to being so bright-eyed and cheerful in less than a day.

But it had happened. And the first thing that morning, he had insisted they catch up on the time they missed together. Starting with hearing the rerun of the president's first address over the radio. Even though they had both heard it more than once, it would be the first time they heard it sitting down, fully focused on what he would be saying.

At least, they were _supposed _to be. But a weary-looking France barged in, not bothering to knock on the front door. His brows were knitted in what appeared to be anger, although when he absorbed the situation before him, his face softened and he shuffled in, pushing America's feet away so he could sit on the couch.

Not a word was uttered besides common sense telling Lithuania's brain that something was definitely wrong. The radio's static lessened. There was a large, single crackle before the president's now-familiar voice came on. America wasn't listening. He could tell by the far-away look on his darkening face. France wasn't listening, either. His legs were crossed and he was leaning forward with an elbow resting on the couch's arm, head cradled in his hand. Lithuania knew he wasn't listening. He could hear the voice, but the words wouldn't process in his head.

When it was over, the station switched over to music. Usually, it would be hard not to move in some way or form, but the three stayed silent and still.

Until there was a loud knock on the door. America squeezed his eyes shut and set his soup down on the table. Noticing he had Lithuania's attention, he flashed a grin that was anything but sincere.

The Baltic's stomach dropped.

"It is Feliciano and his brother," France murmured over the banging.

"Toris, could you . . . ?"

Lithuania jumped up. "U-y-yes." He hurried out of the living room, then realized he should probably allow America a moment to tidy up before the Italians came in. He slowly made his way down the hall. Incoherent mutters could be heard. It almost sounded like someone was trying to console. He opened the door, trying a smile on for size. It quickly fell away when his eyes locked with the younger brother's red-rimmed pair. He stepped aside and opened the door wide.

The older brother stormed in, yanking his brother after him, thundering obscenities at America until his face was red and he was completely in the living room.

Lithuania's name was called. Swimming through the confusion, he found out he needed to get the two some coffee (though, _personally_, he thought this wasn't a very good choice at the moment) and made it to the quieter kitchen. The shouting was muffled and sounded dream-like in there. Maybe it was a dream. And when he opened the door he would wake up to an empty house like he had been doing for months.

Of course he wasn't sleeping. There was a crash. He hastily made his way back to the living room. The red head was crying, hands shaking; his brother and America were immersed in a heated argument; France was kneeling, picking up the large pieces of the cup that had somehow ended up on the floor. Lithuania carefully set the coffee down on the end table, away from harm, and pulled out his handkerchief, handing it to the sniffling Italian and directing him toward a seat.

When out of nowhere, a foot planted itself on the small of his back and shoved him to the floor. His elbows broke his fall with a thud that his mind translated as instant bruising. Italy, who had stumbled a little after him, burst into more tears as he offered a hand.

"Damn it, Lovino! Leave him alon-"

"Damn me? Well. _Fuck_. You. Do you see my fratello? You see him? Look at his face! The mess it is, you see? Damn you, American piece of-of _scum_. Merda! You want me to treat your _'friend'_ well? You did that to Fratello. _You _leave _him _alone!"

America raised an eyebrow. "I _am _leaving him alone, remember?"

"_Cazzo that is not what I MEAN!_" France jumped between the two and quickly steadied the irate Italian. "Remove your hands pervert; I need to knock sense into him!" he shouted, shrugging him off.

America leaped over Lithuania and Italy (who, instead of helping the Baltic up, opted for hunkering down by the arm of the couch with a death grip on the other's shoulder) and behind the chair. South Italy took a quicker route and jumped right onto the seat, sweeping his arms together. But America had already ducked. He pulled the Italian over the back of the chair and scooted out of the way of his wrath.

Lithuania heard a groan. One hand gripped the back of the chair. Then another. South Italy hoisted himself to his feet, glaring at America behind France's shoulder. "Cowardly American. You cannot fight like a man. Shitty tricks to keep the upper hand," he growled. "You laze around in nightwear. _How fucking dignified_." He turned to Lithuania, the daggers shooting from his eyes making the Baltic stiffen. "And _you, _Idiota. Are you that ignorant to what happens or are you simply stupid? You work for a dog that denies your people!"

He blinked. When he realized America was avoiding eye contact, his throat closed. "What do you mean?" he could barely ask, helping the younger Italian to his feet and turning to his ill-tempered brother.

A bitter laugh tainted the air. "Incredible! Ignorant? It happened under your naso? He is shunning your people, too!"

He looked at America once more.

"It's the, uh, Immigration Act." The blond scratched the back of his head. "Look . . . Lovino, I-here, Feliciano, I'm sorry for making you cry. It's just that-"

"What the bloody hell is going on?"

America threw his hands in the air, a look of tired exasperation overtaking him. "Who _else _is coming over?"

England's gaze bounced around the room. ". . . Pardon my intrusion."

"Mm, maybe a few others," France spoke up.

"Great. Um, everyone have a seat, I guess." He went over and turned off the radio. No one moved, so he gestured around the room to the couch and few chairs situated about. "So it's a world meeting in my house. Who ever thought I'd be this imprtant?" He gave a small laugh that failed to lighten the atmosphere.

"It would be advisable to change," France murmured, eyeing the striped pajammas America was still clad in.

He nodded and excused himself to his room.

"I-is there . . . would anyone like something to drink?"

"Coffee?" the red head asked after a moment. The others nodded, not quite sure what kind of engagement they were about to face. " Veee . . . I come with you."

With that, the two left for the kitchen, Lithuania taking the cups from the end table on the way.

" . . . I am sorry Fratello kicked you," Italy said after a moment.

"He loses his temper quickly, I hear."

He laughed slightly. "No, you _witness_."

Lithuania smiled, raising his eyebrows. "Yes, I suppose so."

"Ice?"

"N-no, I will be fine . . . thank you."

The coffee was prepared in silence that, thankfully, extended to the other room, too. Lithuania set all of the cups on a tray, as well as a small pitcher of milk, since they were out of cream, and a bowl of sugar.

Italy smiled sheepishly and took one of the cups from the tray. "I will stay here."

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Company is friendly!"

Lithuania realized he was grateful for someone who could be pleased so easily at such a time. In the living room, though everyone was calm, the silence was cold and suffocating. He gingerly lowered the tray to the coffee table, as if the slightest noise would throw off the balance and send the everyone spiraling into another quarrel. It was wonderful to return to the warmer silence provided by the Italian, even if it was still unnatural.

"Coffee for you?"

The brunette shrugged. "No thank you. Are . . . are you feeling better?"

"Si! Fratello will be too much sometimes. It is scary . . . the people we ran from are scary."

"You ran from someone?"

"They would not let us through! 'No Italians!' he yelled. We boarded the boat and he had friends that followed us."

"All the way here, to this house?" Lithuania urged on, nerves fraying more than they already had.

"Ah . . . no. Ve. We got lost. Fratello knows which families to talk to. In the city with the Green Lady."

"The Statue of Liberty."

Italy laughed, more gleeful this time. "That is a silly name! She does not liberate our people anymore. America does not allow it."

"Oh?"

He tilted his head. "You have not heard? _No more immigrati allowed_. Ve, a few, I guess. But not many. Not like before." He gripped his cup of coffee and held it to his lips. "Fratello heard more about it, I think." A single sip caused him to jolt back in surprise. Seeing Lithuania was watching him, he smiled. And very conspicuously tried to hide it when he spat the beverage back into the cup.

There was no point in getting upset. Especially when the other room had enough tense emotions looming to drain him of his own. "The Immigration Act. It limits the number of immigrants?"

"Si, by many."

Lithuania felt colder and colder as he processed what the Italian told him in broken English. "No, he wouldn't do that," he said more to convince himself than anything.

"He already did!"

"When?"

"Eh . . . Fratello knows. I will ask him not to kick you, and you can see him about it. Do you have tomatoes? That will help, too. Maybe we should telegraph Antonio. Fratello would like that even when he says he does not. And then we can all play guitar and sing! Maybe America would change his mind. Ve, that would be nice, right? But it is cold, here, so we could not go on a picnic. We could all go to my house and eat pasta . . ."

"F-Feliciano, would you like to go for a walk with me?"

"I did not bring my coat."

"You can borrow one in the closet; we have plenty."

"Then it sounds fun! Andiamo!"

"Sh, we do not want to interrupt them."

"Si," Italy whispered, tiptoeing out the door.

Lithuania followed quietly behind him. France's solemn gaze flicked up to meet his. He arched a questioning eyebrow to which Lithuania barely bobbed his head toward the door. Besides that, no one else noticed them slip out of the house.

Outside, the spring air was fresh and the people joyous. The sun was slowly regaining its warmth after the cold winter, so even though it was beating down directly on top of them, it wasn't harsh enough to do anything besides put up a little fight against the wind. The birds were having a great time playing tag from tree to budding tree, and flowers nearly glowed with happiness to have matured from seeds.

In the kitchen, it seemed like a great place to clear his mind. But now that they were out, it was more of the opposite.

Lithuania hadn't realized how much the day had taken a toll on him until he felt the gloom on his shoulders vanish. Italy bounced beside him, stopping every now and again when something caught his attention.

Looking around, they seemed out of place. Their scruffy, dark coats stuck out among the shorter, more colorful spring jackets nearly everyone sported. As they progressed further into the city, it became much more obvious. Women with short, curled hair laughed graciously with one another, strolling arm-in-arm, all in the latest fashions; and business men in new, tailored suits cordially nodded toward each other as they went off to their favorite delis for their noontime meal.

The Baltic stopped in front of a boarded window display. His hair was apparently much too long to be considered masculine, not to mention his coat was over-sized; and Italy had a wild curl waving around in the breeze, with clothes wrinkled from travel. Lithuania frowned slightly. Maybe they were in the wrong part of the city to fit in.

"Would you like to visit anyone?"

"Ve . . . no. Bad news is sad news, si?"

"I had not thought of it that way. I'm sorry."

"I am not mad. Fratello gets mad when there are mistakes. I do not because I make them, too!"

Lithuania smiled. "I see. Do you want to go to the ocean?" he asked, wracking his brain for places to take the Italian.

"No, no! The man with friends . . . "

"There shouldn't be any officials at the beach. It's not near the Statue."

"Beach? Will there be women?"

"I . . . do not know . . ."

"Can we go and find out?"

"I, uh, alright."

"Bella, bella, bella. Belle, belle, belle! I hope there are!"

"It might be too cold to go swimming."

"I hope not! Then we will miss seeing them in their swimmingsuits! We should run."

"W-wouldn't that be suspicious?"

"Ve, of course not! No one knows why we will be running."

Lithuania was about to explain to him about how that was the very reason it would seem suspicious, but Italy already had his arm. "H-hey, wait!" he managed to get out before they took off. However, because he was the one that knew his way around the city, he was the one to lead in the end.

Just as he suspected, there wasn't a single person in the water. There were several people tanning, though. Children busied themselves playing in the cold, wet sand, racing to build the best castle. Italy wasn't very disappointed and, to Lithuania's dismay and embarrassment, made quite a display "admiring" the women.

It was rather a challenge to pull him away, but the Baltic finally succeeded with the offer to pay for something to eat. Pasta was the only choice.

Once they found a suitable resturaunt and were halfway through the meal, Italy set is fork down and smiled. "So, Lituania, you are a friend of Polonia?"

Lithuania's fork clattered to his plate. "I, um, that is very off the topic, isn't it?"

"Si, I know. I was just wondering. I was thinking that I talked to you before now. I could not remember! Then I thougt of Polonia. So I asked."

"O-oh. Yes, he introduced us. I remember that."

"Ah, so you are friends!"

"Not exactly."

"Why?"

"I-I . . . we . . . H-have you ever had a friend . . . but something happened and you were separated?"

"Si. I was very sad." Italy hung his head and pushed the noodles around with his fork.

Lithuania wondered if this was the best way to try to explain it. But he already started, and Italy seemed to understand, so he went on. "If you saw this friend again, how would you feel?"

"Very happy!"

"What if your friend insisted that things went back to the way they were before you were separated?"

". . . Everything?"

"Well, I suppose not. But your relationship."

"Ve . . . it was not bad toward the end. I do not think I mind."

"Oh." Lithuania tapped his glass of water. He wasn't exactly sure if that even _was_ what Poland wanted. For a short while he had thought so, but -

"Do you like flowers?"

He looked up. "Yes?"

"Do you think if everyone was gifted a flower they would be happier?"

"I am not certain if it is that simple."

"Oh. I wish it was."

"M-maybe someday?"

"Si. We will always think of that!"

"Yes, it sounds like a plan," Lithuania laughed. "Are you full?"

Italy nodded and stretched. "Fratello and I had lunch before we went over."

He blinked. So it was a wasted meal. A wasted _expensive _meal, the bill revealed when he payed. Lithuania sighed as they left.

"It is getting colder!"

"Would you like to head back?"

"Si. Oh! Maybe we can go to the beach again."

"W-well, like you said, it's getting colder. All of the p-pretty women are probably going home, now."

"That makes sense. Maybe tomorrow?"

"Maybe."

"You are very nice."

"Thank you, you are, also."

"Grazie!"

The way home was much lighter in spirit than the way there. The sun was setting, flowers closing, everything and everyone getting ready for a crisp night, longing with certainty for the days that would come where quilts and coats could be finally stored for next winter.

When they reached the house, Italy set off around the yard to see which bird was making that very beautiful noise, and Lithuania half expected everybody to be smiling when he went inside. Yet when he opened the door and was greeted with a smile, he pulled it back shut so fast, he stumbled backward a little.

But he wasn't the only one that knew how doors worked.

It swung open. "What is the matter? That is not the way to treat a guest, is it Litva?"

* * *

**AN;;**

**OH MY GOSH THIS SITE HATES ME I SWEAR.**

**Whenever I press the save button, it logs me out. OK. So not every time, but just about. BLLAAAAAAR.**

**I had a whole author's note written out, and it was actually pretty nice and informational.**

**But now I'm just in a bad mood and this chapter is horrible and I should redo it and redo this horrible author's note because it's not fair to you guys but it's now 2:35 in the morning and I have school later in the morning and I am most definitely going to oversleep and not be able to take a shower, and then it'll be all gross and I need to clean my glasses and ';asldkfnkdslgjdsf I'm rambling.**

**There.**

**I stopped.**

**Guh, otherwise I'd be telling you all where I live and my email and my tumblr and all that stuff. Not that you're not awesome people. But this is the internet. I love you. I hope I didn't hurt your feelings. My throat has been hurting all day, and I think my nose is bleeding. Great. I'm totally gonna sleep like a baby.**

**...just like Lithuania's going to sleep like a baby in the next chapter.**

**/cue evil laughter**


	13. Pajama Party

_Quick AN;; Woo hoo! Okay, guys. This is the edited version. I still have to go through for, uh, like, typos and stuff.** ALSO A WARNING:** there is blood. Not a whole lot, but more than a paper cut. So if any of you get queasy just reading about it, then. um. sorry! I suppose you can just bypass that part._

* * *

So far Lithuania had done a fairly good job staying busy which meant keeping up a reason to avoid a certain Russian. He'd gone to the store, made dinner, cleaned the dishes, and tidied the guest rooms. All that was left was to fix the beds. When he was finished with that, he finally dared to join whoever was in the living room.

Italy greeted him with a happy look. England glanced up from his book, and France wiggled his fingers in a lazy wave.

"Ciao," Italy said warmly as Lithuania took a seat next to him on the couch.

"Hello. . . Where is everyone?"

"I believe you will find Lovino on the porch, along with Amérique."

"Matthew is coming down and bringing someone with him. I am not quite sure who. They should be here sometime before morning," England added.

"And," Lithuania paused, not quite certain how to address him. "And Ivan?"

The blond flipped a page. "Hm. The last I heard, he was freshening up after his long trip. That accounts for everyone so far, I believe."

"Ve . . . do you think more will come?"

France shrugged. He had been discreetly leaning further and further toward the Englishman, until he was so close to the blond's ear, the man shuddered and scowled before he scooted into the arm of the couch. "It is difficult to foresee, mon cher," he sighed nonchalantly.

The front door opened and there was a flurry of feet. Everyone straightened, straining to hear if there was an extra pair.

There wasn't.

"Let's sort out sleeping arrangements," said America as he entered. Simply speaking of it, he had to suppress a yawn.

"Artie . . . you and Mattie are sharing my room, right?"

"I don't see a problem with him and me sharing."

"Good. Lovino, Feliciano, you two get a room together, too. Up the stairs, around the corner and first door on the left."

"Si."

"Alrighty. N - "

"The fuck does that mean?"

"Alright, good, _glad_you're agreeing to _something_." America closed his mouth, then closed his eyes. "Uh . . . I think Mattie's bringing Yao. And then there was something about someone else . . . Buddy, you don't mind sharing with Ivan too much, do you? Just for one night."

Lithuania cringed, partly from the way America pronounced his name, partly because the idea of not minding was unimaginable. "I-I . . ."

"Oh, come on, Toris. One night. And you fellas know each other. You'll get _along_. That, and there's no more room! Francis and I will already be sleeping in here, Yao will be in the other room, the one on the end as the leak in the roof, remember? Who _knows_where the other fella will be sleeping - "

"Excusez-moi? This is the first I have heard of this."

"Don't be picky, too!"

After a moment of silent deliberation and awkward shuffling from everyone, the Frenchman tossed his head. "I get the couch."

America let out a harsh sigh. "Take it back to France with you and _marry_the damn thing, for all I care."

He turned back to Lithuania. It was very apparent he was trying not to look sour.

"I . . . " He was stuck. "For one night."

"Great. Now how 'bout we all get some shuteye. Maybe after that and breakfast we can all go back to being civil, right?"

All eyes, whether subtly or conspicuously, landed on the older Italian. His face turned a red that appeared too deep to be healthy and he took a step back. "Si, si, fine . . . _alrighty_," he muttered, flopping his hands up before letting drop to his sides. He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, and then nodded toward the stairs."Veneziano, andiamo."

"Ve . . Notte a tutti!"

"I-m-Al-Alfred?" Lithuania started, after the brothers had left.

"Yeah?"

"You, um, your brother will not be coming until later tonight . . ."

"I know. But Mattie's a good driver. They won't get lost."

"I could stay up. A-and let them in." No. That wasn't right. America didn't lock doors.

"Nah, it's fine. Mattie knows his way around."

"I - " He already knew there was no getting out of it without making a scene. "Goodnight."

"G'night! See you in the morning."

Lithuania mutely excused himself. But the hallway was so dark. He hesitated. England and France nodded toward him. America patted his back. He knew they were all wishing him a typical good night, but if felt more as if they were wishing him good luck. He set his jaw to keep his bottom lip from quivering.

Turning the corner, the bathroom was dark and empty. There was, however, light from his lamp seeping out from the crack between his bedroom door and the floor. He took a slow breath.

Nudging the door open revealed Russia browsing through the few books lined up on the back of his small desk.

"I-is there one you like?"

The blond tilted his head and slowly swiveled to face him. "Nyet. They are all English."

"Oh." Lithuania assumed by the expression on the other's face, he didn't know how to read in the language. "They are good . . . stories," he said, mentally scolding himself for trailing off on the end.

Russia's stare didn't waver. "You read for practice?"

"Y-yes. It helps." Lithuania went over to his bed and grabbed his pajamas from under his pillow. "I - we - it was discussed, and we - you are rooming with me for tonight."

"Really?" Goosebumps crawled down the Baltic's spine as the Russian's face lit up. It was obvious he had already known. Lithuania wondered if it could be categorized with the same knowledge that told Russia this was his room.

"Yes . . . I am going to get ready for bed. S-so if you would excuse me . . ." He tried to make it to the door without seeming like he wanted out as much as he did. "Do you have something to sleep in?"

"Da." He nodded toward a small bag by the foot of the bed.

"Well, then, I will just be a minute," Lithuania all but mumbled before scurrying down the hall to where there could be a locked door separating them.

He changed into his night clothes, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair, all in a hurried daze. Only when he accidentally hit his forehead against the faucet while splashing water on his face did he slow. Lithuania grimaced, resting his cold fingers on the spot. A quick inspection in the mirror revealed it most likely wouldn't bruise.

This reminded him of earlier. He gently pressed an elbow with his free hand. And flinched. He wouldn't be sleeping on his side, tonight. If he slept at all. Just the thought -

Lithuania took several deep breaths to calm himself, but it resulted with light-headedness and slight nausea. He turned on the water and bent over - carefully, this time - to bathe his face in the coolness once more. The Baltic dried off, and then squeezed the water from his bangs. One last check on his forehead. He gathered his clothes and turned out the light.

When he re-entered his room, Russia was standing before him, holding a pillow by its corner. Lithuania continued to his closet, where he hung up what he had been wearing.

"Litva. I sleep on floor."

His brows furrowed. "B-but . . . you are the guest."

"You do not want to sleep on the bed?"

"Y-you can have it. You've had a long trip, and . . . "

"You do not want it?" Lithuania shifted, looking down at his toes. There was a reason for this mindless argument. There always was. The day had been so confusing and his mind was muddled. If only he could think straight.

"I, r-really, it is fine." He had to be a good host, aftera -

"Litva does not answer my question."

He blinked. "W-wh . . . p-pard - ?"

Russia's smile was gentle, as if he was speaking with a child. "You do not want to sleep on the bed?" he repeated.

That was it. _Oh_. It was simply a lesson in being direct. "I, no, thank you. You ca - "

"Then we both sleep on the floor, da?"

The satisfied smile on the Russian's face made his insides lurch. Ostensible. That was the word. Everything that Russia did could be ostensible. Or it could not. Though it most likely was. Lithuania briefly wondered if the blond ever did something without thinking of the consequences. He supposed he had, though not recently. Then he realized he was thinking like America. And America was possibly not a person to trust any longer.

"Da?"

Lithuania forced himself to keep still. "I-I . . . if you want the be - "

"I said I will sleep on floor. You do not want to sleep on bed. Then we sleep on floor, da?"

All he could do was nod, his closing throat making it impossible to speak. He went back to his closet and retrieved a quilt for them to lie on. Russia situated the two pillows as he went to turn off the lamp. He wouldn't draw the curtains. The light from outside made itself known, but was conveniently cut off from where they would be sleeping, by the other side of the bed.

Russia didn't complain. He had the blankets from the bed pulled down. When Lithuania timidly joined him, the covers were pulled up to their chins. Russia turned away and undid his scarf, folding it neatly next to his pillow before dropping from his elbow to his head with a sigh.

"Goodnight, Litva."

Lithuania forced himself to swallow. "Goodnight." His eyelids drooped from the toll the day had taken on him.

The aged house hummed with the breeze that made shadows of trees dance upon the walls. Russia's breathing was already steadying, and America's snore traveled down the quiet hall. The brunette realized he had forgotten to let out _his_breath. His chest constricted. A chill crawled up his spine and across his scalp, sending a shudder in response.

To his horror, Russia rolled over, draping an arm over him, hand landing behind his head. For an instant it was as if everything hiccupped. Then his heart hammered against his rib cage in the most painful manner, shooting ice and shivers through his body.

"Cold, Litva?" came a murmur. The hand started petting his hair as the Russian scooted closer until their knees barely touched.

He couldn't blink. He couldn't speak. Air quivered past his throat.

Russia barely opened his eyes to peer down at him. "Litva. Cold?" he whispered, pulling the Baltic's head to his chest.

Lithuania winced and put his hands up the best he could, so he'd be able to breathe. The fact of it was, he felt he was overheating quite a bit. Yet the shaking wouldn't stop! He tried to keep his breath shallow and steady. His back started to ache from the awkward position and his elbows throbbed from sudden contact, but as he felt the Russian's heartbeat under his fingers, he had the slightest sense of relief that his own was private. Unless it could be _heard_. It was deafening, behind his ears. What if Russia could hear it, too?

"Litva?"

His eyelids slid shut, the word resonating through his head until it faded with all other sounds.

"_My_ Litva," he could barely make out.

_No, not yours,_ he thought absently, adding to the whirling lullaby in his head.

"Litva," Russia said again. But this time his voice sounded much closer.

Lithuania's eyes snapped open.

The large man was leaning on the bed with one arm, fingers from his opposite hand lightly tapping Lithuania's heart. "Litva, up, da? Polshka is here."

The Baltic gripped the blanket and rolled over with a sigh and a displeased shiver. Shifting did not help, for he had the edge of the blanket, so of course his back would be uncovered. Although, it didn't matter; this was just another bad dream. Everything blurred, then went dark as his eyelids found their matches. He _would_have to wake up soon. Letting America stand his ground against all those hungry nations, some of which were probably not as civil as they could be in the morning, was an unsettling thought. Maybe eggs and toast would be acceptable . . .

Fingers tapped his shoulder. When he did not move, they took turns hopping to the nearest rib, making their way down to the very last one. They rested there for a moment before disappearing. Lithuania jolted when they came back and tickled his side. The upper half of his body jerked backward and he flipped onto his back, hands flying in the air and closing around two wrists. Upon seeing whose wrists they were, he let go faster than he had grabbed them.

"H-rr-Ivan . . . "

The looming Russian chuckled and patted his cheeks. "You entertain very good in the morning, Litva."

The Baltic suppressed a shudder as he sat up, shying away from the country to keep from bumping heads. "I . . . H-how am - did I come to be on the bed?"

Russia shrugged. "You did not stop shiver, so I put you high up with warm air. It works!" A hand clapped onto his shoulder with an iron grip. "You should be get dressed. We will go on a walk, da?"

"I-I, u-uh, but what about - "

"Oh? You have made friendly with him? This is the first I am hearing. How troublesome, Litva. I should know these things."

Lithuania's eyelids fluttered closed. "B-but, these - th-these are not matters . . ." No, that was _absolutely_the wrong thing to say. His throat went dry.

"Chto?" It was too late.

He tried to rasp out the end of the sentence, an apology, anything - but only air came out.

"Litva you were saying." A soft shake.

He swallowed. "N-n-n . . . not matters that concern you."

Russia's eyes dulled. He straightened with a sigh, a barely perceptible purse to his lips. "Of course it concern me." The corner of his mouth twitched up in a quick, slanted smile. "Nyet, it does not matter! He is not here."

The Baltic's jaw went slack as emotions churned behind his dumbfounded gaze.

"He is not here," Russia generously repeated.

"I - he is not?"

"Nyet. It was to wake you." The blond's eyebrows knitted. "Litva, are you well?"

"Y-yes, thank you . . . and y - ?"

"You are addicted to Amerika's coffee now, da," he stated flatly. "Tea is good!"

"I-I-I still do drink tea."

"But coffee too."

"Yes, some-someti - "

"Knock, knock!" America sang as he burst into the room. The tenseness of the atmosphere seemed to whistle out the door like helium in a balloon. "Hey, good to see you're both up - Mattie's got breakfast on the table. Oh, and don't worry about anything shmancy. Nobody's got clothes on, yet," he chattered, briefly gesturing to his own pajamas.

In that moment everyone seemed to pause completely for Lithuania. Then time caught up.

America grinned and slapped the door a few times before slipping out of sight. Lithuania realized Russia had been talking for quite some time after that, but he couldn't tell for how long. He received another look that could possibly fall under "concerned" along with numerous others he constantly seemed to be getting sent his way, but with Russia, it was always hard to tell. The tall blond grabbed his hand and dragged him to the edge of the bed until he found his feet and was able to walk.

He led the way to the kitchen, greeting the first person he saw with a smile, but seeing as it was the older, glowering, Italian brother, he dropped the smile and accidentally backed into Russia. This earned a scoff from the grouchy man across the room.

A singing Frenchman made the mistake of spinning into the Russian's side as he whisked the soon-to-be-scrambled eggs with flourish, sending all three stumbling about. Lithuania's hands shot out and he quickly pulled himself flush with the oven door, careful not to touch the steaming pans on the stovetop.

The younger Italian was brewing coffee, though the look on his face told him it still wouldn't be satisfactory to his fine taste. Lithuania was tempted to drink some, but he took a cup of tea that England had made instead.

America threw open the door. "EEEEEEEEVERYBODY TO THE _DINING_ROOM," he bellowed, cutting successfully through the commotion.

Lithuania allowed himself a sigh of relief. He gathered forks and knives and followed the trail to the room with part of a chandelier hanging haphazardly from the ceiling. Besides the mangled decoration, the room was once again immaculate and majestic, with the ornate room shining in the morning sun and soft twitter of birds outside the open windows.

Yet everyone wanted to sit with their backs to the window. There definitely was not enough room for such a thing, so America ordered the drapes to be drawn and candles to be lit. The velvety glow surrounding them and the tinkling of forks against plates brought Lithuania back to a much simpler time.

His tea cup almost slipped through his hand. "Alfred . . ." He had to know.

"Yeah, Buddy?" The American turned his head slightly, speaking almost as soft as his companion.

"Wh-who is here, now?"

The blond tapped his chin with a syrupy finger before realizing it was sticky and popping it into his mouth. "Er. I know Mattie's here - " America gestured to the pancakes "- Yao decided it wasn't worth his time or something. I don't know. Artie, Francis, Feliciano, and Lovino are here from yesterday. And Ivan. Then there's you and me. I think that covers it!"

Lithuania nodded slowly as the blond was pulled into a different conversation. So Russia _had_been telling the truth - the second time. And Lithuania had dug his own grave. Before, he had been wondering if it was time to go back. But with his bold comment earlier, that option was dashed. Facing Russia in a house full of irate nations felt much safer than facing him alone. And if he went back, they _would_, at some point, be alone. Alone with Russia's cordial front as they played a verbal game of cat and mouse while they discussed government issues.

It terrified the Baltic that the Russian knew exactly how to back people into corners. No, it wasn't cat and mouse at all. It was a maze. At first, so many options, but always one way out with Russia's amiable smile waiting at the end.

If Lithuania stayed, he wouldn't have to go to sleep with an invisible fist clenching his insides each night.

But it was Russia. He could have intentionally directed the conversation toward Lithuania's painfully honest opinion so that the Baltic would be afraid to return, leaving room for disaster on the other side of the ocean!

The brunette cast a sideways glance toward the Russian. Instead of being met with the violet, knowing eyes his suspicion expected, he saw the blond laughing at something the Frenchman said.

Lithuania took a deep breath. No, he had to stop doing this to himself. The only thing he needed to focus on was the Immigration Act and finding out what it meant for his people. Based on all the nations that came over, it didn't sound like a very good thing.

As the table was cleared, such matters were brought up. For the first time, everyone didn't try to speak at once.

"Oh, fuck you, Alfred. Not more than racist, bigot child with power to hurt others," South Italy spat. His accent was just a tiny bit thinner than it had been the day before.

"I don't get it! Shouldn't you fellas be glad not so many of your people are coming to me?"

"Si! And if they – people - are not glad, I will drown in all of my fratello's damn tears!"

America frowned. "Don't you understand? In ten, twenty years they wouldn't be happy, anyway. I'm not some big-shot with loads of ritz and swank! Sure, there's some . . . a lot in the city . . . but have you even seen anything besides what people want you to see?

"I've got problems just like you. And they won't get any better if a bajillion poor immigrants . . . _immigrate_here, thinking they're gonna get work right away. It doesn't work like that! They usually stay poor, you know that? _Doesn't mean they can't work to be well off_ - I'm _all_for that - but there are too many that just think they're stuck doing whatever they're doing to make anything better! J - "

"Blah, blah, blah, you speak too fast. All I understand is you blame our people to be poor. But I am not _stupid_. I know what it say. I know your numbers. And what about the 'white' immigrati? Huh? Why so many blue-eyes get to go through? How is that fair, Mr. Freedom and Liberty Fuck? Why are you here, _Artù_? To laugh at my shit Arabo blood?"

"W-well, I - no, you see - " the Englishman stammered, caught off guard.

"Romano," North Italy all but whined. "Y - "

"What? Am I 'being scary' again?"

"Hmm . . . maybe there would not be an issue if you directed your energy toward your government to aid your people instead of telling everyone here how racist and unfair you think the act is," France commented smoothly.

"Eh, but it _is_racist, da?" Russia piped up before the Italian had a chance to reply. Everyone turned toward the large nation as he innocently batted his eyelashes. "The Jewish population suffer great deals from this act. No more Jews wanted for Amerika, da?" His eyes landed on Lithuania before moving to the American. "And Yao people not allowed at _all_. No Asian from anywhere at all."

America sighed. "Yes, it's racist, alright? Happy I said it? Think it'll change anything? I didn't write the act. I'm not gonna go tell Congress and everybody else to drop what they're doing because some of the countries they figured would have issues with it came all the way here because - _who would've guessed?_ - they have issues with it."

"Alfred, your snide remarks are unnecessary."

"This whole 'meeting' is unnecessary!" the blond pressed on, his ears reddening. "Look. You all agree that America's been a _fairly decent place_for immigrants, right?"

Lithuania watched as everyone slowly began nodding.

"And that there seems to be a lot of opportunities for immigrants to find their feet?"

Italy's chair jolted back. "They lost their feet? No, no! Horrible! Is it catching?"

His brother nudged him in the ribs. "Idiota! I think it is to be a _figure_. . ."

"Uh, yeah. Figure of speech. They don't hop off the ships and have their feet run away. Sorry, bad way to put it." America apologetically scratched the back of his head as the Italian calmed down. "There are plenty of opportunities for immigrants to, uh, become financially and socially stable."

"Oh."

"Anyway, you guys aren't actually left holding the ba - being cheated. If you look at it this way, not only are more of your people staying _your_citizens, but the few that come here will have a greater chance of making it!"

The older brother frowned. "Explain."

"Fewer families are split up across oceans, so less _weepy_goodbyes. And then the fellas _here_ that are looking to hire the immigrants aren't bogged down by a bunch of sad faces with puppy eyes. There'll only be a couple! Then the fellas might just decide to hire on an extra person. Which means extra money back to _you_, when that lucky person sends some much-needed dollars to their family back in your country."

"It all sound like fucking peaches and daisies." He threw his hands in the air as he grumbled. "You are not saying what should be said. What is left out?"

America's face took on a bored expression. "Not everything that sounds good is missing something. Now, I understand how you fellas could've been angry before, but hopefully having it explained helped. Still mad?"

"Cazzo, of course I am. And do not completely understand."

"Don't worry; we can discuss it further later today or something."

"But . . . we need to going today."

"Ve. Can we eat lunch pasta?" He jumped up as the other stood.

"No, there are not enough. Who told you to take damn money for trip?"

"You," the younger brother whimpered. "I forget - "

America slapped his hand down on the table. "Here," he said, lifting it to reveal several dollars. "S'more than enough. Your lunch is my treat."

The Italians stared at it for a moment before accepting the crumpled bills. South Italy sniffed and teetered before deciding to excuse himself, his brother on his heels.

America propped himself up and leaned over to blow out the candles in the centerpiece. Six solemn nations sat silently inside the ring of light.

Then Canada lifted the pepper the same time a yawn overtook him, causing an exaggerated turn away from the table and an immense sneeze. He quickly snatched up his napkin as he uttered a nasally apology.

Lithuania could see the normal reaction play out; England would ask with quiet concern if the Canadian was – no, he wasn't saying anything. It had only been his imagination.

No one was moving, let alone making a sound. He very easily guessed what they were all mulling over in their heads, and he knew he probably would be, too, if only he completely understood. South Italy's English was not something to be envied, and whenever America tried to be persuasive, he talked too fast to be understood by anyone who didn't have a good grasp on the language.

His hands dropped silently to his lap as someone's chair scooted. By the looks of it, France was the culprit. Lithuania flinched as the Frenchman drew the curtains back and sunlight flooded in.

"Mes amis. Look at yourselves! Look out the windows – sunlight, warmth. C'est springtime. Let us all agree to disagree for a day and see our dear Italians off with l'amour. Oh – Russie, are you leaving as well?"

"Ah . . . nyet. It nice and warm, here! So boss says why not stay for while?" He smiled pleasantly at the Frenchman, who did his best to smile back. "That is, eh . . . _allowed_, Amerika, da?"

"No problem," America said with a shrug.

Canada stood. "I, uh, I'm going to go see if they need any help packi –"

"That's a great idea!" America jumped up. "Artie, you start my car, Francis, can you – hey! Why don't we all go out? Have a picnic!"

"I will be preparing our meal, oui?" France sighed.

"What is it now?" America nearly whined, throwing his hand out toward the blond.

"I only have bland foods to select from, in your house!"

Lithuania felt his face warm slightly. He was the one who did the shopping. Of course France would know that. Wouldn't that make it an indirect insult?

"Well _I_ like what I eat. And, y'know, if you _really_ don't want to make anything . . . Artie, you have my full permission to make us lunch."

"Mon Dieu! I only want a palette with more colors, not an afternoon full of vomit!"

"Oi! I _know_ how to make a damn sandwich."

"Ohoho, of course you do Angleterre. But maybe next time, cher. Big Brother Francis will handle it this time."

"Do not _patronise_ me, Frog! You take the bread, and then there are condiments – no! I don't need to explain! Thank you very much, Alfred. I will make a lunch not one of you will ever forget!"

France chuckled. "Oh, because we have definitely forgotten all the other times you have cared to make us eat another one of your _monstrosities_ you call meals."

"I know how to cook!" He turned to America. "That is right, isn't it Alfred? You always enjoyed it when I cooked for you?" At this, Lithuania became very confused. He could still clearly remember the two in the hallway, discussing this very matter. And, like many of their other discussions, it had not ended well.

"Yeah, 'course." The Baltic had to concentrate to keep his eyebrows from rising. No, that wasn't a serious tone, was it?

"Oh, not you as well, Alfred."

"No, really! Sure I did! Uh, do. I just like razzin' you, too. Your food is, er, the bee's knees! Great stuff. Right Mattie?" America looked around when he wasn't seconded by his brother, but it was a fruitless search.

"Someone called?" the Canadian stuck his head in the room, readjusting the hold on one of the Italian's bags with the help of his knee.

"Yeah, about Artie's c –"

"Oops gonna drop this gotta go," he barely managed to get out before he disappeared to the hallway.

"I-I will help!" Lithuania jumped to his feet and scurried after the Canadian. He couldn't help but sigh in relief as he took the luggage from Canada's other hand.

The blond laughed. "Exciting, right?"

Lithuania's cheeks reddened. "Th-they are very energetic."

"I wonder what they'll do when they find out lunch is already made," he pondered mischievously.

"What do you mean, please?"

"How about _we_ make lunch while they're still in there bickering like a bunch of rowdy schoolboys?"

"B-but Feliciano and Lovino . . . ?"

"No need to worry! They're up taking a nap. Uh . . . _siesta_, I think they called it – but don't quote me on that. And then they're headed up North to see some people. You know, it seems like nearly everybody and their uncle knows someone _somewhere_ in the states. Alfred's really popular! And . . . he'll probably be even more popular after _everyone_ learns of the act." Canada set the bag by the living room entrance.

Lithuania followed suit. "Are . . . are you concerned?"

"Nah!" The blond batted a hand, backing into the kitchen. "Well, alright, maybe a little. But it's Alfred, y'know? Things tend to work out for him in the end. Now! Where in the world does that fella keep his peanut butter?"

A small smile tugged the corners of Lithuania's mouth up. "With the cups and glasses."

"What?" He opened the cabinet door and looked even more astonished when he found it staring him in the face. "_Why?_"

"He likes to make himself peanut-butter-and-honey sandwiches. It reminds him that he wants a glass of milk, too."

"Alright, I guess."

They then wasted no more time making the lunch and hiding it safely away in the picnic basket. Putting the basket back where they found it and a quick cleanup left the kitchen looking just as it had before they had entered.

"That ought to do it," Canada said with a satisfied smile.

They snuck out and made it to the living room just as an argument floated from the dining room to the hall. America walked in backwards, vehemently gesturing toward France as he spoke. Lithuania was instantly reminded of the Italians. England just shook his head, face red, crease between brows.

"That is enough, Alfred. Please, not another word!"

"Okay, okay." He lifted his hands in surrender. "I will make my own sandwiches. Everybody's sandwiches."

Canada frowned as if the trick had backfired as his brother left the room. This was very interesting to the Baltic. So –

Russia sat down on the couch beside him, hands on his knees and a content smile on his face. "Litva."

"Y-yes?" He glanced around to see if this was to be the start of another discussion, but the other three were busy talking amongst themselves.

"Just Litva."

Lithuania's eyes slowly looked away, though he could still feel the Russian's eyes on him. "A-ah, Matthew," he started in hopes to ward off the self-consciousness closing in on him.

"Yes, Toris?" The Canadian answered pleasantly from across the coffee table.

"I, u-uh – what . . . activities . . . do you like to participate in?"

Thankfully, he smiled as if this was the most normal start to a conversation. "I like playing baseball with Alfred . . . cooking with Francis . . . knitting with Arthur – my needlepoint needs a little work though."

"And we will fix that," England assured him with a confident nod.

Canada smiled. "Kumajiri likes to go on walks in the woods with me. We also make our own maple syrup. Hockey is the bes – a very fun sport."

"Hockey?"

"Yeah, ice hockey. You have your stick, the puck, goalies –"

"It is similar to bandy," England added.

Russia brightened. "Oh! Litva, you know. What we play in wintertime?"

Lithuania nodded.

"Well, hockey is better, if I do say so myself," Canada remarked with a small, proud smile. "I can teach you sometime next winter, if you want."

"Yes, please. That sounds very enjoyable."

France, away from being the center of attention for far too long, let out an airy sigh. "What is taking so long? And where is my petite?"

"Feliciano and his brother are sleeping," Canada said. "Though . . . they might be waking up by now," he noted with a glance at his watch.

France frowned. "They usually nap later in the day."

He shrugged. "Maybe they were especially tired from their long trip?" he offered.

The blond sighed again. "And where is your silly brother?"

"I'm not sure why it's taking so long." His brows furrowed. "Just a minute." Canada stood and left the room in a rather brisk pace. Maybe the plan really did backfire.

"Well," England started, immersing the nations in his purposeful air. "I suppose after we see the Vargases off, we should settle down and eat lunch at a park. There is one close by that is particularly pleasing to the eye, this time of year, but the bees will be busy. I suggest we drive to the other side of the city. No, the park isn't as nice on that side – the company it offers is not exactly enviable, either – though there are noticeably less flowers, so, provided the park isn't overcrowded, we should find our visit to be very nice."

He smiled and crossed his legs, hands folded on one knee. "By then, we will have three hours at most before the air begins to cool. We can bring a deck of playing cards and maybe some books. Alfred will be inclined to bring his baseball and bat to play with the local children, which will be somewhat loud and rather dangerous. During this time a walk might be beneficial for your peace and digestive system. Around the perimeter of the park there are paths through the trees, though to those unfamiliar with it, you will want to head my warning: they are unkempt in some areas, resulting in maze-like clusters. It will take a good amount of time to find your way out if you are not careful. However, if you pay attention you will see some warning signs, such as sharp turns in the direction of the path or several thinner paths branching out from the one you are walking.

"After –"

"Angleterre, _please_! You are comparable to a leech, sucking joy right out of our day."

England sniffed. "I am simply preparing us. Would you rather us sit like idiots in the middle of a bloody bunch of bees, bored with nothing to do but sit there and try not to be stung?"

"Where is there room to be spontaneous in your plan? No love. No excitement!"

"If you are goi –" The Englishman pursed his lips and shook a finger at the blond. "You very well know that spontaneity cannot _be_ planned," he said tersely.

Lithuania's attention was pulled away from the matter at hand by the sound of someone descending the stairs. Then America marched in, Canada close behind. From where he sat, Lithuania could see the toes of a pair of shoes peeking out from in the hall, though the brothers were blocking whoever it was.

"Sorry, Artie, but all your beautiful picnic plans are trashed as of now. See, we have double the amount of sandwiches we need, so I think I'll just give them to Mrs. Waller across the street. Patty passed away last month, you know."

"Oh," the Englishman replied softly. "That – that is – how is she fairing?"

"Aw, not too bad. Little Mickey came back from Arizona to help out."

"Good heavens! What would he be doing way out th –" England cut himself off and glanced around the room. "Very good, Alfred. Helping a neighbor in a time of need is very admirable." He stood and straightened his sweater. "What do you suppose we do instead of eating at the park?"

"Mattie suggested we go to the beach and scope the place out," he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Dry up, Alfred. I did not."

"A _fantastic_ idea!" France exclaimed the same time England muttered, "Oh, _please_, Alfred, grow up."

America threw his hands in the air. "To the beach!"

"After we see you off, of course," Canada added to the two Italians that were now standing by their things.

The younger brother nodded. "The beach sound fun, but we need to be go north. Have a good time!"

"You are put clothes on, no? Or is fashion to be wear what you wear to bed?"

The countries still clad in pajamas excused themselves.

"Fratello! Maybe that is why Germania say not to sleep like normal!"

"No. He is just controlling bastard – lucky guess."

Lithuania closed his door to the conversation, faintly wondering why America and Russia had stopped in the hallway. He was about halfway done buttoning his shirt when the Russian quietly shut the door after him. The look in his eyes was very peculiar, but when he focused on the Baltic, his expression became unreadable under his typical smile.

"That does not like what people wore when I saw the people at the beach."

"I – I do not have clothes like what you saw."

"But you afford it. Amerika pays you, da?"

"Yes . . . he does. I am saving it. For my people."

"Ah, ever devoted, Litva. That very – what did Angliya say? Eh . . . _admirable_."

Lithuania turned his gaze toward the closet. It was impossible tell if Russia was being facetious.

Once everyone was ready and the car was started, everyone piled in. They dropped the Italians off at a train station a note that they had mentioned. America sang along with the bumps of the road for several minutes. Mud sloshed onto the windshield as a "breezer" passed them, and England had to coax the playful blond into turning off where he was supposed to instead of challenging the driver to a race.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," America gave in as he pulled over to the curb. "There's no way I'd win with all of you in here."

"I'm glad you've come to your senses."

"Yeah, yeah. Everybody out! Let's have some fun!"

Everyone quickly vacated the hot vehicle and crossed the street. Throngs of people were everywhere. Lithuania was in awe at how much a place could change if people were added. The day before had been much colder. Now that the weather was warm and sunny, it was as if beach goers appeared from thin air! Lithuania had even brought his coat and scarf along, just in case, but it was now obvious he wouldn't need them for long.

"Litva, what are they doing?" Russia nodded toward a group of young adults with a ball and bat.

"I think they are about to play baseball."

"Hm." The blond leaned against the rail, watching them with interest, now. "Amerika has mention it. Have you played?"

"Yes, once. It was . . ." His eyes wandered across the ocean. What could he call it? The only time he played, he had injured America. If he called it fun, wouldn't that be morbid?

"Once? Amerika like game very many! Would not he and you play?"

"W-well, the game did not end well." He had to smother a panic starting inside him just from the memories. Russia was silent, though, and Lithuania knew he would not get away with only telling part of the story. "I . . . threw the ball and hit him in the head."

A crack split the air, and they both watch the baseball fly toward them. It bounced off the railing, making it ring, a short distance from Russia. He followed it across the ground, finally catching it and bringing it back to the Baltic.

"You hit him in the head. With little hard thing like this. Da?"

"Y-yes," he could barely bring himself to say. He wouldn't dare mention how he had kicked the American in the same spot, later that very day.

Even if he somehow did, Russia wouldn't have been able to hear it, anyway; the nation was laughing too hard.

Unnerved, Lithuania stared wide-eyed at the Russian. How was this something to laugh about? It was horrible! He glanced over to the others, but they were much further down the walk, conversing with a man and woman selling hot dogs. At least America couldn't hear Russia laughing so wholeheartedly at his pain.

"We should take ball to them, da?" he chirped. He started walking before Lithuania could answer. After a moment, he was mostly composed. "Amerika must watch out! Big, bad Litva do not settle for kid game like baseball!"

"I-it was an accident," the Baltic insisted, his face reddening.

Russia chuckled. "Ah! Here is your ball!" They quickened their pace as they met with the young group.

"Gee, thanks! With all the people, we thought we'd never get it back." The young man smiled, his boyish face covered with freckles from staying out repeatedly in the sun.

"You have a very good swing," Lithuania told him.

"Aw, shucks. It's strong, no kiddin', but it needs work."

"All that way, only for it to be a foul!" A taller brunet added. A few laughed behind him.

The young man chuckled. "Better luck next time, I guess. Hey – you fellas wanna play? "

Russia smiled and shook his head. "Many thanks for the offer."

His head tilted. "Uh, certainly. Any time."

They parted ways; the nations continued to the other side of the beach, and the boys back to their game.

"Da, baseball look fun. We play when you return?"

The Baltic's steps faltered. "If you want to," he replied, hoping it had looked like he simply slipped in the sand.

"You will not return soon."

"N-no . . . I suppose not."

"Even if you unwanted?"

He flattened his hands against the sun-warmed rocks they had reached. "I will help my people whether I am wanted or not."

"I _see_. You use Amerika for benefit."

"Wha -I –"

"Nyet, nyet. Fine. Nothing personal, da?" Russia shrugged, eyes big and understanding.

No, it was a trap. Of course it was. "He considers me a friend," he said as evenly as he could. "I consider him a friend, too. Friendships are not so shallow that they only reach far enough for both people to benefit." Lithuania leaned back, looking at the rocks. He had probably said too much. "If . . . if we decide we are no longer friends, then I will simply be a housekeeper until I leave."

The Russian patted his shoulder as he passed by. "Litva, you always so sensible," he remarked with a contented sigh. "But little advice? Do not go too far to . . . not everything always so sensible, da? Do not confuse with reality. Eh . . . this crumbs?" He crouched down in front of a damp sack in the sand.

"Yes, it appears to be."

"Nu, I mean do not be in trouble with fantasies. Da?"

"I-I understand." Lithuania knew very well that Russia did not give advice so freely. There had to be something . . .

"I confident Litva understand. Just – if thing happen, I help you."

That was it. Russia stood; probably to add to the sincerity.

"Ah! Look! We can climb rocks. Fun, da?" He motioned to a crevice that resembled tall, rocky stairs before reaching over toward the higher rocks for balance. The blond stepped back and frowned. "Coats off, Litva. They restrict."

Lithuania shrugged his coat off and, after folding it nicely, set it gently on the sand. He started to unwind his scarf, but Russia's stare stopped his arms in midair. "I-is something the matter?"

"You will not wear scarf?"

"W-well, it _is_ quite warm out . . . isn't it?"

"I take it."

"O-over you other scarf?"

"Da."

Russia gestured for him to hand it over. He hesitated for a moment, but his hands already knew there was only one option. Russia wound it over his own scarf, the orange and gray stripes complimenting its pale color.

"It is good scarf. Good scarf deserve to be worn by willing," he told Lithuania, patting it fondly. "Now! We feed birds?"

They rolled up their sleeves and made it to the top. Standing only a few feet from the ground made an amazing difference on the view, Lithuania found out. One way, the rocks led to the concrete walkway and then turned left, leveling with the concrete and docks further down. In the opposite direction, the rock inclined to a dramatic, tapered, flat part.

To his horror, Russia headed straight for it.

Oh, he should have expected this! Of course he would not be granted a moment's peace! Lithuania's chest tightened. "A-ah, is that really safe?" he asked a little louder than he would have preferred.

Russia looked around. And jumped.

With a shout, Lithuania jolted, hand flying forward. But Russia landed on the rock – not tumbling into the cold water.

"Litva?" the large nation giggled.

His face felt hot, and his heart sounded too loud. With a deep breath, he crept forward until he was on the ledge, too. A careful glance down told him that the ledge stuck out only inches farther than the rest of the rock, which was a straight drop to the water below. At least it seemed sturdy enough to hold both of them.

"Crumbs?"

"Y-yes, please." Lithuania peeled his eyes away from below and cupped his hands.

It took a few minutes of cooing, but their efforts were successful. A gull soared over them. Another landed on the rocks. Russia tossed some crumbs down to it, and three more joined. Lithuania dropped some over the water, attracting one.

After watching them for a while, Russia turned to him. "Have you ever fed with hand?"

"No, not a gull."

"I not either, too." He blinked several times, and then sprinkled crumbs around their feet.

After more coaxing and cooing, Lithuania slowly crouched and stretched a handful of crumbs toward a bold gull venturing up the rocks. "Hello," he greeted softly.

Russia leaned over him excitedly, but the sudden movement caused the gull to squawk and back up.

"No, no, no, no. It is all good," he continued just as softly.

The bird came closer and closer until it experimentally took some crumbs from the Baltic's hands. Lithuania was speechless, and he could feel Russia absolutely frozen behind him. Not even the smallest breath whispering past his hair.

It ruffled its feathers and came back for more.

Unfortunately, even such an amazing experience had to come to an end. A scream from the beach curdled the air. Lithuania jumped to his feet in surprise, backing into Russia. The bird shrieked and pecked the Baltic hard in the arm. Lithuania slid back even more. There was a yelp behind him, and he knew Russia was heading toward water. The bird flapped and swooped down on him, sending him skidding across the crumbs. To his horror, he felt his feet slip off the ledge. He threw his head to the side to avoid an oncoming attack that barely missed his cheek. A horrible sensation crawled down his spine.

The next thing he knew, he was swimming toward the surface.

"Russia? Mr. R – Ivan, where –" A cough choked off the rest of his sentence. There was a splashing sound nearby. He blinked the water from his eyes to find a blurry Russian.

"Litva." His voice was almost trembling. "Blood."

"Where does it hurt?" Lithuania pursed his lips and headed to the shore. "Do not worry; it will be easier to check on shore – are you able to swim?" He reached over and grabbed the Russian's sleeve.

They stumbled onto the sand. At least, Lithuania thought they both had. Russia was walking normally beside him! Lithuania turned and opened his mouth to ask where he was injured, but everything was black. For an instant he felt content. No, he _was_ content. And it was nice. Then he was simply . . . nothing. Which also was nice. There was som –

But it was day time. The sun was shining. He could smell the salt water and sand. It wasn't _supposed_ to be black. His eyes snapped open. They were already on the concrete walkway? He felt something squeezing his arm. It was Russia's hand. He looked up and blinked at the blond. "I-it is fine, I do not need to be held. Where does it hurt?"

The Russian only stared at him, so he peeled the hand off his shoulder, ignoring the little voice in his mind chiding him for doing something like that to Russia. Of course he would pay for it later. Lithuania took a step away. "Litv-nyet!"

Lithuania found himself sitting on his knees. Russia was wrapping his scarf back around his neck. But the strange situation wasn't what caught the Baltic's attention; the blood up Russia's arm and down his side did. He looked down at himself and his breath caught in his throat. It wasn't Russia who was hurt.

The scarf tightened.

He heard a voice from afar. Or was it Russia's, and he was just falling out of consciousness again?

No, it was America's. Then there was Canada's and England's and France's.

How _embarrassing_.

Why did things always go wrong?

Strange chills kept shooting up his torso and settling in his throat, almost making him giddy.

There were bumps and the _putt-putt_ of the car.

He realized his eyes had been closed. The car was painfully bright inside. But after a moment, he saw that he was sitting between Russia and Canada. He reached toward the scarf. It felt as if his blood had been drained and replaced with lead.

Lithuania was suddenly sitting on the kitchen table. The scarf was gone, along with his shirt, but his neck and shoulder seemed warm. His hair felt pulled back. He looked up.

"Hey, Buddy." America smiled at him, his face all he could see for a moment. He was holding his shoulders.

"How bad is it?" No. His words sounded slurred.

America shrugged. "Aw, not too bad," he said flippantly.

He tried to narrow his eyes, but it was as if they wouldn't settle for anything besides wide open and closed. "I am not dying on a battlefield," he reminded him, struggling for dictation.

The blond nodded. "Really. Not too bad. It's the artery, so it looks a lot worse. But it's not so big that I can't stop the bleeding with my pointer." He wiggled a stained finger in front of the brunette's face.

Lithuania's hand clapped over the side of his neck. Hot liquid leaked between his fingers, and he felt himself leaning forward.

"Oh, no you don't!" America pressed his hand firmly over Lithuania's. "Hey, one of you get some juice for these two."

Two? Lithuania couldn't turn his head, but in the corner of his eye he could make out Russia's scarf draped over what was almost certainly Russia's shoulder.

England was coming toward him with a paper cup. "Thank you, I can hold it." He slowly lifted the cup to his lips. The cold tang of orange juice registered.

"Spasibo," he heard next to him.

"Does it hurt?" America asked, drawing the Baltic's wandering attention back to his face.

"No."

"Alrighty. You must still be in shock, or something. Just don't move your head or talk anymore. Mattie's gone to the store to pick up some stuff – gauze and whatnot."

"But th –"

"Sh!" America clapped his other hand over the Baltic's mouth. "No talking, remember? We don't want you out cold again. He –!"

Lithuania froze.

"No _nodding_ either. Gee, you must really be out of it! But, yes, I know the medicine box is around here somewhere. We just couldn't find it."

He took a deep breath in through his nose. He knew where the box was. _Behind the bucket on the right, under the sink in the bathroom. _And he did not feel "out of it". Lithuania's eyes slid closed. Of course, that probably meant he _was_ "out of it". At least he wasn't supposed to speak. With his mouth shut, he didn't have to worry about anything he said in such a state.

"Hey, are you nodding off again?"

Lithuania blinked at the blond. He had been talking more?

"No nodding of _that_ kind, either." His hands disappeared, making Lithuania have to press harder against the side of his neck. The blond stood there a moment longer, but when he was confident Lithuania wasn't going to fall off the table, he left to give the sandwiches to the neighbor.

Why couldn't he have given her half of them? If they went on the picnic instead of going to the beach, Canada wouldn't be buying medical supplies, Lithuania and Russia wouldn't be sitting on the table, and England and France wouldn't be standing –

No, they weren't standing there, anymore. _When had they left? Has everyone gone?_

Lithuania turned and nearly _did_ fall off the table when his eyes met Russia's cross gaze. No . . . no, this wasn't good.

"Amerika said no moving."

Then it hit him: something was wrong. _There is plenty wrong, _he argued with himself.

The corners of the Russian's mouth quirked down just ever so slightly. "Where level-head Litva?"

No, no, no. This was worse than not good. Lithuania's stomach knotted as he stifled a shiver.

Maybe something wasn't wrong. Maybe something was just _different_.

"Cold, Litva?"

His heart was beating too fast. Russia's hand came up and he flinched. But the blond brushed his fingers softly against the Baltic's jaw, turning his head back so that he was staring straight ahead. His hand fell.

The light was so blue. What time was it? Had the sun already set? Blue bounced off the walls, the door, and the floor – everyplace it could be reflected. The clock wasn't working, he realized, staring at its still hands poised indefinitely on one and four.

His eyes fluttered shut as he took another breath.

"Litva?" There wasn't concern. Nor spite. Simply curiosity. Which was more dangerous?

"Which do you think has more scars?"

"Who do you think is thinner?"

"Sh!"

"Aw not again. Hey, but thanks for not letting him fall, Ivan."

"It is my pleasure."

"Uh. Yeah, okay, how's your arm and everything?"

"Excuse me, Alfred. I can't get to his neck."

"Holy crow! You're not going to suture it, are you?"

"He would not be holding a needle if he was planning on simply bandaging it."

"Yeah, but – damnshitfuckshit – at least a warning, Matt! At least a warning!"

"Well, _sorry_ I was paying attention to his neck instead of where your eyes were looking."

"Amerika is afraid?"

"What, no, it's just _kind of sickening to watch somebody plunge a needle into somebody else's ne _– hey, it's not funny! Stop laughing, it really isn't funny!"

"Alfred stop being such a child. And _move_ you're in the way."

"Alright, alright."

Lithuania looked down, only to be told to _not move his head for the tenth time, because the bandages were new and shouldn't have to be replaced until before bed_. But he was _already_ in bed.

The Baltic was overcome with a deep inhale that didn't quite make it to a yawn, followed by a long sigh. He lifted a hand to rub his eyes and push his bangs away, the other arm propping him up. From his elevated position, he could see Russia staring at him, pen poised in hand, from the desk by the foot of the bed.

"What are you writing?" he blurted before he had time to think. He winced at how garbled and heavy with sleep it sounded.

Russia blinked, his eyebrows rising. "Chto?" His voice seemed loud compared to the muffled birdsong outside.

Allowing himself a moment to think, Lithuania realized he also needed to switch languages. "Good morning," he started over, this time in Russian.

Russia's eyes moved to the wall opposite the window, then cut back to the Baltic. "Good morning, Litva," he returned evenly, though his disposition hinted that he didn't quite understand what was happening, and wasn't about to ask.

How odd! When was the last time Lithuania had seen such an expression on him? It felt too early in the day to think so far back, so he continued with his inquiry: "What are you writing?"

He smiled, looking down at the paper. "Letters for my sisters. They wanted to know why I am taking so long to return. And if I am to return empty-handed."

Lithuania froze as the recent events caught up with him. _Why in the world was he speaking Russian?_ What if he was giving Russia the wrong idea? Even so, he couldn't just switch to English in the middle of the conversation. He resisted the urge to touch the bandages he could now feel on his neck. "Are you?" he asked a little quieter. Lithuania wasn't even certain if that was the right question to ask. However, anything to keep away gaps in the conversation was better than nothing.

Russia chuckled. "No."

The Baltic felt skittish, but Russia wasn't paying attention; he was turned away searching for something. Lithuania tried to regain that pleasant feeling he'd had before as the Russian straightened.

"Francis took me to a boutique, and I found new ribbons for their hair," he explained, holding up a box covered in patterned paper. He looked eager to watch their faces as they opened it.

Lithuania smiled. "That sounds very nice."

"They will enjoy that, yes?"

"I would think so."

Russia gave a content smile, setting the box next to the pages of carefully printed thoughts and experiences on the desk.

There was a soft knock on the door before it opened a crack. "Is he awake?" he heard America whisper loudly. In English. Russia nodded, and it opened wider to reveal a cheerful-looking America with a bowl of what looked to be soup in his hands. "Hey, Toris! Glad to see you finally conscious. Want some lunch?"

"L-lunch?" He turned his head to verify this with a look out the window, but grimaced and stopped himself short because of the pull on his neck.

"Careful, there. Yeah, lunch! You slept all yesterday and the night before and this morning. You know you mutter a lot in your sleep?"

"I-I-I do?"

"Yep. Mostly in Lithuanian, though, so I have no idea what about. But there was one time when you mumbled something about doing the laundry."

His eyes bounced from America to Russia, and back to America. " . . . Oh." What was he supposed to say to that? The most he could do was hope he hadn't said anything embarrassing that they weren't going to repeat.

"Are you feeling up to some soup?"

"No . . . no, thank you."

"Okay, then. Would you like a nightshirt? We were kind of afraid to put one on you before, because we weren't sure if you'd stain the collar or something."

"Yes, please."

"Alright. Oh – and, uh, you'll want to take off those pants, too."

After changing into clothes that didn't smell of salt water, the nation settled down into the pillows. America had gone. With the birds' chorus and Russia's quiet pen-scratching, Lithuania drifted once more to sleep.

Lithuania shot up with a gasp, nearly falling out of bed. His heart hammered against his rib cage, so _painful._

"Whoa, whoa. What in the _world_ is eating you?" Russia was at the foot of his bed, and America near the side.

"There . . . was a-a very large beet . . ." he said between breaths, running a hand over his forehead and through his hair. It came back damp.

America's eyebrows rose. "So . . . just a bad dream? With evil vegetables."

A quiet giggle emanated from the Russian.

"Y . . . yes . . ." Lithuania's face reddened. But it had been quite frightening while he was sleeping!

"Okay. Uh, do you need some water?"

"I will get it, thank you." He untangled his legs from the blankets and swung them over the edge away from America.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" America asked his back.

"I am feeling better," he insisted. The truth was, he had been growing restless, and after such a nightmare, needed a change in surroundings. He stood, but after the first few steps, it felt as if his head was being squeezed. His skin tingled and vision blurred. Someone had his shoulder, keeping him from falling backward.

"Come, Litva, I will help." Russia's smiling face came into focus. They headed for the door, slowly. America was silent behind them.

The Russian lead him directly into a chair at the kitchen table.

"Oh, and you got a letter." America dashed from the room, and dashed right back, setting it in front of the Baltic the same time Russia set down the glass of water.

His gaze bounced between the two. It was almost uncomfortable, how they were watching him. He offered a smile. "Thank you both." He ran his thumb over the flap; there were gaps where the glue had not been properly wet. Curiosity taking over, he flipped it over to see who it could possibly be from.

His smile didn't falter as he ripped it neatly in two.

"Wh—you're not gonna to read that?"

Lithuania's eyes followed the outline of the glass. A water droplet was sliding down the side. "I should hardly think there would be anything of importance inside," he answered quietly, stacking the two pieces and laying them next to the glass.

He couldn't breathe. He wanted to be alone. He needed to be alone. He couldn't discern if America simply didn't understand the situation, or if, like Russia, he was gauging his reaction. And Russia would have his arm again if so much as made an effort to stand.

The Baltic tried to take in a breath, or maybe let one out—he could figure out which he had done last—but to no avail. He set his jaw and closed his eyes. With concentration he was able to suck in a deep breath. His hands were trembling, ever so slightly.

There was no getting out of it.

He had to read the letter.

Lithuania exhaled sharply and blinked a few times. He wouldn't look up. No, he had to stay calm. Composed. He was not going to overreact. Not at all. Lithuania was a very well-mannered nation, and causing commotion would not be right.

It was dated the fourth of June.

He very carefully held the pieces of the first page together. Then the second. Such nice paper. Was he flaunting his money? Did he have money to flaunt? No, no! He didn't care. He refused to care. Why should he care? He crumpled the pages and moved on to the third.

"That blockhead," he murmured in his language. Aggravation made his body tense. His heart was beating so loud in his ears, he barely registered the other two questioning what he had said.

Lithuania bit his lip. Hard. He was losing it. No, no, he had to stay calm.

Although he didn't look up from the letter, he suddenly knew he was alone.

At the bottom of the last page, the words "Your one and only best friend in the whole wide world" were unfinished and crossed out.

_Lithuania, you make me sick. Actually, writing THAT up there almost made me sick. I cannot call you a friend even in a stupid letter. What is it you say when you get really, really angry at someone? I hope the ground swallows you up? Something of the sort. Well, anyway, I know you are going to say that after you finish reading this – you might have already said it – and I just am going to let you know that I wish the same to you._

_Poland_

"May the earth swallow you up!" He cried out, ripping the last page into fourths then eighths.

"May—_may the spring's first thunder kil-kill _–" Lithuania slammed his fists on the table, scooting the chair back and standing up. He couldn't say it. Not even now!

"You pock-marked toad," he muttered, positively fuming.

"You—you son of a snake!" He swiped his hand over the table, sending the little paper bits into a fluttering frenzy in the air before falling, and the larger pieces swooping down to the floor. In his anger, he also knocked over the glass.

Only when it rolled off the table and shattered on the floor was he able to make a conscious effort to regain his temper.

His breathing was labored. His head dizzy. Lithuania sunk into a crouch and wearily picked the larger glass fragments out of the travelling water puddle, and moving them into a small pile a little ways away. He winced as he grabbed a shard wrong. A bead of blood joined the water. Picking up the smaller pieces was worse, and soon the water was pink. He swept the glass into a dustpan. It tinkled as it went into the garbage.

Lithuania hesitated. He would need a towel to sop up the water – and there was no way he would even consider using one of the white dishtowels. Cracking open the door and listening for a moment, he realized the rest of the house was empty; the front door was open, and he could hear the two on the creaky porch swing. He quickly took a towel from the linen closet and then returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning the mess. The bite in his fingertips told him that the mess wasn't only on the floor.

In the bathroom, the Baltic took the medical supplies from under the sink and arranged them along the edge of the small countertop. He seated himself on the edge of the bathtub and proceeded to doctor his hands, then his neck as an afterthought.

This was horrible. Shameful. Exactly what Poland would have wanted.

After he was finished, he retreated to his room, back to his bed. He rolled onto his side and pulled the blankets up past his ears.

Everything was throbbing. Everything hurt.

He was exhausted.

But he also had the Klaipėda Region.

* * *

**AN;; And THAT is how you swing a story from American events to Lithuanian events.**

**No, actually, I don't know.**

**But I thought the chapter should end on a happy note. Well, happyish.**

**the letter was in polish btw**

**OKAY I THINK I SHOULD EXPLAIN A LITTLE BIT: (Be prepared for A LOT OF INFORMATION IT'S LIKE A BADLY WRITTEN TEXT BOOK BECAUSE MY EXPLAINING SKILL ARE ABOUT AS FAULTY AS AMERICA'S actually probably worse)**

**You see, in previous chapters (or maybe it was just one...) Klaipėda came into the story. However, the Klaipėda Region is different. It's Memel. For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, or maybe you do but you want to learn more about it (or maybe you're just a genius and already know all about it (IF SO PLEASE HELP ME I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER)), I know have recommended reading: .com/books?id=180UAAAAIAAJ&pg=PA130&lpg=PA130&dq=LITHUANIA+may+31+1924&source=bl&ots=tmx1gy8sxn&sig=rQXjxu-pKXwReqDPDifERF9HbqQ&hl=en&sa=X&ei=XxnyTo7uOM30ggeioaSkAg&ved=0CCEQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=LITHUANIA%20may%2031%201924&f=false**

**Wow, that's a really long link.**

**But if you prefer I just tell you, this will also give you insight on the letter from Poland:**

**...wait now I'm totally confused and am not sure if the Klaipėda Region is different or not augh**

**WAITWAITWAIT I THINK I GET IT. By the looks of it, they are, in fact, the same.**

**See, in 1923 there was the Klaipėda Revolt, but the fait accompli wasn't recognized or something by the Council of Ambassadors until 1924. Poland also really wanted the region, as I think I've mentioned before. Long story short, Lithuania got it instead, Poland's wants weren't granted, and so it was a big win for Lithuania. At the time. Little did he know that he would end up having to pay for Germany's reparation debt for that region. Although I guess it kinda makes sense? I guess?**

**Alsooooo, Poland was being a sore loser and started stirring up ruckus around that time about the Lithuanian Riflemen's Union and how they were planning on attacking Vilnius. Germany helped with falsifying these rumors, but Lithuania wasn't so innocent. A few months earlier in January, the Minister of Foreign Affairs was talking about how they would get Vilnius back.**

**Guys, this is a turning point. British-Lithuanian relations start going downhill from here. Estonia and Latvia are now obviously in favor of Poland. Poland is set on weakening Lithuania's government. And Lithuania is slowly becoming a recluse. WHICH RUSSIA REALLY DOESN"T MIND NOPE.**

**I'm sorry! I wish I could say "Hey, Immigration Act chapter is through - smooth sailing from here on out!"**

**But it just isn't true. In fact, in 1924 more Lithuanian LEFT the U.S. than immigrated here.**

**Ahhh don't feel too sad, though. America's got a plan to keep Lithuania away from the news and governmenty stuff.**

**In fact, I have part of the next chapter already written and so far they are running from a rampaging mama bear.**

**...**

**... ...**

**.**

**uh.**

**OH AND GUYS I'M SO SORRY I KNOOOOOW IT'S A BAD HABIT TO PRETEND IT'S OKAY TO NOT UPDATE/EDIT IN FOREVER AND THEN GIVE YOU A BIG FAT CHAPTER**

**LENGTH DOES NOT MAKE UP FOR FREQUENCY OR WHATEVER**

**But thinking of length, this chapter went from smallish and gross to being over 12,000 words. That's. Like. Actually too long for a chapter, but I had to set up a bunch of stuff for future chapters.**

**Guys. Do you have any idea how much research I do?**

**If there's a complusive research disorder, I'm pretty sure I have it. Seriously. I know so much about the 1920s now, but it's like it doesn't even matter because there's SO MUCH MORE to learn and I NEED to learn it because I just have to. Not just for the story. But just because.**

**And yes. Lithuania is cursing. Apparently that's what cursing is like, there. Or was, before other languages got integrated in. Is integrated the right word? I don't know it's now 5:12 in the morning.**

**SERIOUSLY GUYS I EVEN DO RESEARCH FOR AUTHOR NOTES THIS CAN'T BE HEALTHY**

**For those of you wondering how in the world his neck got cut in the first place, let me just tell you that gulls are vicious when they want to be, and when they are it isn't pretty. And if you're a nonbeliever and think wow, that's way far-fetched, I don't care (sorry, now I'm being meannnn just go to bed, grrr) you can pretend he got in from the ledge or something in the water or something have fun.**

**Can you believe it? Russia and America not at each other's throats! That's because they didn't hate each other. They just kind of sometimes annoyed each other really badly, but got over it usually because hey it's the twenties people still had values and manners and stuff. Well, most did. A lot didn't. But, yes, they're civil. That, and America still doesn't quite realize Russia's a "bad guy" (for lack of better term at 5:20 in the morning), yet. He's just . . . kind of a "guy" who has insane-like tendencies and starving people. And Stalin hasn't notably become the man to be responsible of most deaths in the century, yet.**

**Russia is really thin in this chapter, guys. I mean, he's gained some weight since earlier in the decade. He's getting there. Back up to healthy, I mean.**

**I really, really want to write a fic about America helping Russia with his famine. But omg the outburst on tumblr against writing/drawing anything that has to do with tragedies or mass deaths, I guess, is he-uuuge. And I think unnecessary. Unless those people just hate historical fiction. I mean, seriously. I understand how writing about recent events could be controversial and/or sensitive topics, and I agree that any sort of "mass death" (what am i even talking about all my vocabulary is somewhere out the window) shouldn't be made trivial just so someone's OTP can get together. But yes, there are historical fiction stories that dabble in romance. I suppose things like this just need to be handled tactfully. I hope that makes sense, my eyes are going blurry from being awake this early.**

**But anyway, if I did write it, they wouldn't be a pairing.**

**MAN. I was rushing to get this chapter done so I could have the 13th chapter edited and reuploaded on Friday the 13th. Also, guys, the 13th of January is a significant day for Lithuania, too. But I'll leave you to your research. I'm going to bed.**

**EDIT: OH AND I FORGOT TO MENTION THAT YES, I DO HAVE A DA ACCOUNT, I WAS JUST HESITANT TO PUT IT ON MY PROFILE BECAUSE IT'S OLD AND MY USERNAME IS STUPID AND CHILDISH BUT YOU CAN FIND IT ON MY PROFILE UNDER HOMEPAGE THANK YOU AND HAVE A GOOD MORNING.**


	14. An Intermission of Sorts

AN;;

Uh.

Hello, guys.

Am I allowed to do this?

I need, like, a FFN consultant. Someone to just consult whenever I think I might be breaking some unspoken (or maybe spoken) FFN rule.

Well, anyway, I am just telling you I'm not dead (for those of you that haven't looked at this for a while).

And that I haven't given up on this story.

And . . . . . I was gonna, like, have a nice apology, but whatever I type kind of just sounds pathetic. :T If you're disappointed that this isn't a new chapter, I'm sorry. Just in case you haven't looked, yet, I edited the last chapter, though I still don't know if I'm satisfied with the silly thing.

I'll delete this, don't worry.

But I just feel like a kind of really horrible person for saying I'd edit it and then be gone for months on end. I mean, I didn't originally get an account and start writing for anyone but myself, but all of you seem so nice! I don't want you guys to be upset (too much) or anything ;c;

I've been super busy and school seems really stupid at the moment and I'm trying not to get sick and my friend had surgery and apparently it's unhealthy to not have a social life so

...

okay okay

Here.

Have an omake.

Or whatever. idk

It's a joke I was told the other day.

Actually, I don't know if it counts as racist, maybe I shouldn't tell it.

Um.

Okay fine, I'll give it a shot, but if anyone's offended I'll take it down (I'M SO STUPID HOW CAN I NOT TELL IF SOMETHING IS RACIST OTL SOMEONE HELP ME **PLEASE**).

I . . . Hetaliaized it. So. alskdjfaslkdf

* * *

There was a joke here but I took it out because it was really bad and horrible and I was really displeased with it. It wasn't funny to begin with. But if you're curious, it involved Germany, Japan, and cars.

* * *

WOW OKAY AFTER TYPING THAT OUT IT DOES SEEM RACIST I'M SORRY IF YOUR EYES BLED

I kind of really hate typing accents.

Datsun was originally DAT and is now known as Nissan.

Okay.

Uh.

I'm an idiot, sorry.

To make it up to you, here, have something with Lithuania and America (oh dear).

* * *

_It was a dark and stormy night._

_The storm was so loud and dangerous, that the nations had to hurry to get out of the rain._

_They found themselves in a dilapidated house. The windows were cracked and all the mirrors shattered._

_There was a creak. _

_A giant monster scuttled out of the shadows, waving noodly arms around like a mad scientist's hair._

_"RAAAAAAAAAAAAH" it boomed, louder than the thunder that rattled their rib cages._

_America shrieked and Lithuania fell ghostly pale. What kind of hero was afraid of monsters? If there was no hope for America, there was no hope for him, either!_

_It chased them up the stairs to a dead end. _

_And gobbled up their toes._

_"No, no!" they cried._

_BUT IT WAS TOO LATE._

_Then Lithuania got a really, REALLY bad stomach ache. Worse than usual!_

_That was the fateful night he found out he was lack-toes intolerant. _

_BUM BUM BUMMMMMMMM_

* * *

I _did_ mention I was an idiot, right?

On a serious note, who here is willing to give reading a scarier chapter a try?

I've never tried horror story or scary story or even campfire story before.

And, if you haven't noticed, this IS my guinea pig story (that just so happens to be turning out better than expected...).

Yes? No? Maybe?


End file.
